


where enough is not the same it was before

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: (the attempted murder kind not the sexy kind), (yes that needs its own tag), Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, Geoff Curnow is a BAMF, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutilation, Pining, Podfic Available, Prison, Shaving, Sign Language, Strangulation, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25323835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: A month after the Empress’ murder, Geoff Curnow is reassigned to Coldridge Prison.“It’s bend or break in Coldridge, Geoff has known from day one. Even those with some sort of moral compass are eventually whipped into shape by the status quo, and even the most incorruptible captain can find himself forced to lean away from his values – because it’s bend or break, and it’s every man for himself.But sometimes, there is no bend. There is only the breaking point.”
Relationships: Corvo Attano & Emily Kaldwin, Corvo Attano/Geoff Curnow, Geoff Curnow & Emily Kaldwin
Comments: 170
Kudos: 138





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Why is it that whenever I want to write a oneshot I _somehow_ end up with a multichapter project that's approximately ten times as long as I wanted it to be?
> 
> Ah well. This ship deserves it.

He is reassigned to Coldridge, a month after the Empress’ murder.

They present it as a privilege, an honour, but Geoff knows the transfer exactly for what it is. It’s the death of his career, in essence – officers get promoted for capturing criminals, not for keeping them locked up – and it’s _reassurance_. He’s been asking too many questions, been too critical of Burrows’ newly implemented security measures, was involved in just one too many skirmishes with Campbell’s Warfare Overseers. Geoff has been a nuisance, and this is how they mean to be rid of him.

He supposes he should be grateful he hasn’t ended up on the bottom of the Wrenhaven.

Though some days, even that prospect seems more cheerful than another twelve hour shift in the dull granite fortress, feeling as trapped as the prisoners themselves.

In theory, his job should be easy. He’s a captain, the highest Watch rank assigned to Coldridge, and all he has to do is oversee one of the four cell blocks, make sure the guards are doing their rounds, take the lead subduing any fights that break out. But these are not his men, the squad with whom he cultivated trust and respect; these are prison guards, those under his command rotating every day, and respect is not a concept they seem to understand.

To a man, they’re brass and loud and vicious, even those who came here with some sort of moral compass quickly whipped into shape by the status quo. It’s bend or break here in Coldridge Prison – but then Geoff has never been particularly flexible.

He clings to his righteousness, as tightly as he can. The others say he’s clutching the reins of his high horse, but he doesn’t care – under his command, the prisoners will not be abused. They will not be beaten, their rations will not be tampered with, they will not be humiliated or goaded or cursed at. While Geoff Curnow is responsible for cell block C, its prisoners will be treated like human beings.

It’s already come back to bite him in the ass more than once during his short tenure. The lower guards have forsaken some of their less desirable duties out of spite, claiming Geoff’s strict policies take up too much of their time. And since the state of the cell block reflects directly back on Geoff himself, he’s taken to things like handing out rations and collecting laundry and cleaning up the blood after a particularly nasty altercation – though those are becoming fewer and farther between the longer he remains at his post. The inmates who have been here for some time know the value of a decent captain.

Geoff finds he doesn’t particularly mind the menial labour; it’s better than sitting at a desk all damn day, in any case. It must be his Serkonan blood, the others hiss behind his back, though loud enough for him to hear. It’s all merchants and whores and servants down there, after all.

He tunes out the disdain. His cell block is in order, and that’s what matters. He might have preferred being out on the streets, but he has his job, and he’ll do it well. Perhaps, when the plague has passed and Emily Kaldwin sits the throne, he can return to his old post.

For now, he will do as he’s told.

And that’s easy, for a while. Until the day he takes over a nightshift from an ill colleague (the plague, everyone whispers, as they always do when someone falls ill these days), and he’s faced with a horrifying truth.

He already knew, of course, that Corvo Attano is in Coldridge. Knows he was dragged away from the Empress’ corpse, her blood coating his hands – saw it with his own eyes, in fact. But Corvo’s cell is not in cell block C, and Geoff allowed himself, selfishly, to forget.

Now, though, taking over control of cell block B for the night, he cannot forget. Not when they drag Corvo past his station at two in the morning, leaving a clear trail of blood behind them on their way from the interrogation room. Not when they all but throw him into his cell, laughing when he helplessly collapses into a heap. Not when Corvo doesn’t even have the strength to make it to his cot, sleeping instead right there on the cold hard concrete.

Not when he talks in his sleep, mumbling pleas and apologies in Serkonan – “I didn’t kill her, I didn’t, I could never, please don’t, it hurts, it _hurts_ , please, I’m sorry, I didn’t kill her –”

Geoff spends most of the night scrubbing the blood – _Corvo’s_ blood – from the hallway floor, trying to tune out the sound of Corvo’s voice. The other guards just snicker at the former Lord Protector when they pass his cell, amused at his fall from grace. They can’t understand his mutterings like Geoff can, never had a grandfather from Serkonos who taught them the language – though even if they could understand, Geoff doubts they would care.

When the floor is spotless, he can’t take it anymore. “Blevins,” he calls, approaching one of the guards on gate duty, “when is someone coming to take care of his wounds?”

“Sometime after breakfast, probably,” Blevins shrugs. “It’s fine, he won’t bleed out or anything. The Royal Interrogator is careful about that.”

Geoff doesn’t doubt that; Morris Sullivan might be as intelligent as a hagfish, but he has always had an uncanny knack for pain and suffering – also quite like a hagfish. “He’s bleeding on my floor,” is what he says, as disdainfully as he can manage. “Get me a kit and a bucket, I’ll do it myself.”

“By your orders,” Blevins says, respectfully enough – but before Geoff is out of earshot, he hears the lower guard mutter “Serkonans, honestly” under his breath.

Nevertheless, he brings Geoff the medical kit and bucket of water he asked for, and Geoff lets himself into Corvo’s cell.

Up close, Corvo looks even worse. Blood has soaked into his prison uniform, which is torn and even burnt in places. His hair is long, matted, and it looks like he hasn’t been allowed to shave since he was put in here. And really, it is only the state of his beard that betrays he’s been in prison for but two months; his thin, shivering form might as well have belonged to someone who’s been locked up for a decade. There is nothing left of the mighty Royal Protector he used to be.

It’s a heartbreaking sight.

“Corvo,” he murmurs softly, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder – and immediately, fingers wrap around his wrist, quick as a whip, though their grip is weak.

Corvo stares at him as though he is an apparition. “Geoff?”

The ‘yes’ dies on his tongue. Right here, right now, he is not Geoff, not to Corvo. He is Captain Curnow of the City Watch, and Corvo Attano is a convicted criminal. “I need to bandage your wounds.”

Corvo’s eyes cloud over, and only when it’s gone does Geoff realise the glimmer in them was hope. “Of course,” he says, monotonously. “Can’t have me die of blood loss before I sign the confession.”

He strips himself of his threadbare shirt without preamble, exposing his chest – and _Outsider’s balls_ , Geoff cannot suppress a flinch at the sight of it, covered in scars and bruises and half-healed wounds and _open_ wounds, barely a patch of unmarred skin visible at all.

It’s ironic, he supposes. Back when they were travelling the Isles together, he would have thrown a man overboard to see the Royal Protector without his shirt. Now, all he wants to do is look away.

But he can’t, so he attempts instead to make the sight just a bit more bearable.

He cleans the wounds first, wipes the blood, some of it still tacky, some of it long dried, from his skin with lukewarm water, then disinfects the deeper cuts as best he can. None of them are deep enough to need stitches – the Royal Interrogator is _careful_ about that, after all – but they look nasty, jagged, painful. Geoff doesn’t even want to imagine what instruments Sullivan used to inflict those wounds, and he is swift to cover them up underneath a bandage, wrapping the cloth neatly around most of Corvo’s torso.

Corvo sits motionless the entire time, doesn’t even flinch at the antiseptic, only moves when Geoff tells him to lift his arms so he can apply the bandage. As soon as Geoff is finished, Corvo shrugs his shirt back on – Geoff should really see about securing him a new one, one that’s clean and whole – and staggers over to his cot, upon which he sinks with a heavy thud.

Geoff stays only long enough to mop up some of the blood still coating the floor, though he does it sloppily; he needs to get out of this cell, away from Corvo and his battered body and those empty, dead eyes of his.

But before he can escape back to his station, Corvo calls his name. “Thank you,” he says, in Serkonan.

Geoff stiffens, his hands shaking so badly his key misses the lock three times before he manages to insert it. Corvo has nothing to thank him for – he is a coward and a fool for letting a good man rot in this place while he goes about his day. Because he is almost certain Corvo is innocent, despite the compromising position he was found in. He simply cannot reconcile the kind Royal Protector he got to know, the broken man whispering apologies to his Empress in his dreams, with the murderer they’re trying to paint him as. But he has been convicted, will be executed before the next Fugue, and there is nothing Geoff can do about that.

He flees cell B5 without another word.


	2. II

He has an extra nightshift once every four days, the captains of the dayshift rotating until someone can figure out exactly what’s going on with Captain Hawthorne. The others grumble about it – it _is_ a lot, even Geoff has to admit – but Geoff finds he doesn’t mind much. It’s not like he has a family to come home to; the plague tore through the Curnows even before Empress Jessamine was murdered. It’s one of the reasons he was so adamant to join the expedition around the Isles to ask for aid.

The other reason is currently residing in cell B5.

Whenever he’s on cell block B’s nightshift, Geoff tries his best to make Corvo as comfortable as possible. He cleans up Corvo’s injuries from that night’s interrogation – and those from the three nights before, because no one bothers to check on his wellbeing but Geoff. He finds Corvo a clean uniform, brings him a blanket without holes, sneaks him some food from Geoff’s own rations, because he suspects they purposefully feed him less than they do the others.

Corvo thanks him every time. Geoff can never find it in himself to respond.

He is still a coward, still a fool. But at least this way, he can live with himself.

He brings a pillow with him on his fifth nightshift, plumper and less ratty than the one Corvo has to make do with now. They dragged him back to his cell early tonight – and upon entering, Geoff can immediately tell why. It seems the Royal Interrogator forgot to be careful, this time.

“That needs stitches,” he says, staring at the deep gash spanning the length of Corvo’s forearm. He’s not too proficient in suturing, but he thinks he can manage – and it’s not like anyone else will bother to try.

When he takes out the needle, though, Corvo recoils. “Don’t,” he rasps, shaking his head. “They’ll just make it worse, next time.”

Geoff drops the needle. The sound of it seems to echo throughout the entire edifice, impossibly loudly. “This… they did this because they _knew_ I would…?”

Corvo nods – and Geoff curses, vehemently. Of course Morris Sullivan didn’t forget how deep he can cut; _of course_ they’re harming him worse now that they know some idiot cleans him up once every four nights. Of course not even this barest act of kindness can go unpunished.

“I’m sorry,” Geoff whispers, in Serkonan. “Would it be better if I stopped?”

“No,” Corvo responds immediately, sounding more than a little panicked at the prospect of losing the only kind touch he receives in this place. “Just… no sutures.”

“No sutures,” Geoff agrees easily, and Corvo relaxes, putting altogether far too much trust in a man who is a coward and a fool.

Geoff cleans and bandages the wound instead. It won’t heal well like this, but at least it won’t get infected – and, with luck, the interrogators won’t inflict many more wounds of this magnitude, knowing they won’t get stitched up.

“Thank you,” Corvo says, as he always does, when Geoff is packing up.

He cannot contain the derisive snort, this time. “You have nothing to thank me for.”

“You care,” Corvo argues.

Geoff snaps the medical kit shut. “I just don’t want you bleeding on my floors.”

It sounds unconvincing even to his own ears, and there is a hint of amusement in Corvo’s answering hum. “Whatever you say, Captain Curnow.”

* * *

Hawthorne did, in fact, catch the plague.

He’s already on his way to the Flooded District, stripped of his rank and all his earthly possessions. It says a lot about the state of the city that Geoff can barely muster a shred of sympathy for a man doomed to certain death.

It means his position is left vacant, and Geoff, for reasons he doesn’t care to discern, asks to be transferred to the nightshift – and by extension, cell block B – permanently. It will be easier to secure a new captain for the dayshift, he tells General Tobias, and he just wants to do his part in these trying times.

His request is granted without issue – Serkonans are more used to being awake at night, they say sagely, with the siesta and all – and the genuine smile on Corvo’s face when Geoff announces the new arrangement makes it more than worth it.

He needs to be careful, of course; no one can know he has any real sympathy for Corvo, or he suspects he’ll be occupying one of these cells himself before he can say ‘injustice’. He’s more cautious about bringing gifts; he has taken to insisting his whole cell block needs things like new uniforms and thicker blankets, hiding his true intentions behind a sneer and a callous remark (“Their clothes stink, I might just hurl when I’m doing my rounds”, “I don’t need them getting pneumonia and dying on my watch, the clean-up is a nightmare”). He cleans Corvo’s injuries only when his blood coats the floors – which, granted, is nearly every day regardless. And whenever he wants to speak with Corvo about anything other than the prison day-to-day, he does so in Serkonan, so no one can overhear.

Not that there is much to talk about, if he’s honest. Corvo’s life before Coldridge is too painful a subject, intertwined as those memories are with Empress Jessamine and Lady Emily, and Geoff’s whole life _is_ this place now, his family long gone and his career at a forced standstill. Sometimes Geoff can offer up an amusing anecdote about one of the guards under his command, but they are cruel men still, and are not often anything even remotely resembling amusing.

Geoff longs for the days they spent at sea, their conversations lengthy and lively despite the gravity of their task. Corvo had spoken openly of his old home in Serkonos, of his small family, of his time serving in Theodanis Abele’s Grand Guard. Geoff had told him of his grandfather, who hailed from Bastillian, and of his large extended family, with whom he used to celebrate the old Serkonan holidays. One evening, deep out on the ocean, and deeper still into his glass, he’d been brave enough to ask Corvo if he would like to join him for the next flamenco festival – the first he would be spending alone in years, with his entire family dead and buried. Corvo had even said yes.

But Corvo will be dead before the next flamenco festival, and there is nothing more to say.

So Geoff cleans his wounds and sneaks him food and he keeps his head down, because he is a coward and a fool.

And again, that’s easy. For a while.

Until he passes by Corvo’s cell during rounds one night, and hears the man mumbling in his sleep again. This, in and of itself, is nothing new. But tonight, it’s not Jessamine’s name on his lips, or Emily’s.

It’s Geoff’s.

He freezes when he hears his name amidst the myriad of mutterings uttered into the darkness, peers into the cell to see Corvo curled up as small as he can make himself on his cot. “Please,” he breathes, in familiar Serkonan, “please, Geoff, help me, I didn’t, I didn’t, believe me, please, Geoff, please, _help me_ –”

His heart catches in his throat – _fuck_ , what if someone hears, what if someone realises what he’s been doing, what if they arrest him, what if they make Corvo’s life _even worse_ –

Geoff slams his baton against the bars of Corvo’s cell, the clang of it loud enough to wake half the cell block. “Warriner!” he barks at the guard on gate duty, who had been dozing off (the guards on gate duty are always dozing off). “You aren’t paid to sleep!”

“Yes sir! I mean, no sir!” Warriner snaps into a salute immediately – he’s still young, still idealistic, and Geoff already knows he will lament seeing it squashed under the prison’s harsh politics. “It won’t happen again, sir!”

Some of the others, guards and prisoners alike, snicker at the flustered guardsman; through the bars, Geoff can just make out Corvo’s disapproving frown. It’s almost enough to make him feel guilty – but it’s every man for themselves, both in Coldridge and in Dunwall as a whole, and Geoff has every intention of making it through this time of plague and death and misery.

It seems the reins of his high horse are falling out of his grasp. It’s bend or break, after all.


	3. III

Corvo doesn’t stop saying Geoff’s name in his sleep.

That, too, is irony, because Geoff would have been thrilled to know he featured in the Lord Protector’s dreams before they both landed themselves in Coldridge. Now, he just wants Corvo to _shut up_ , for both their sakes.

Waking him in the middle of the night is only a temporary solution, and it’s not as though Corvo has any control over himself while he sleeps – so Geoff will have to eject himself from Corvo’s dreams, will have to make sure even Corvo’s subconscious won’t expect any help from him. He is not, _cannot_ , be Corvo’s saviour.

He pulls away as much as he can, delegating most of the duties that require direct contact with the prisoners to the lower guards. He still goes to clean Corvo’s wounds – because that is expected of him now, and failing to do so would surely raise suspicion – but he does it less often, and more hastily. There are no more murmured conversations in Serkonan, no more careful, tender touches. Geoff only speaks to Corvo when he has to give an order.

The look of sadness and pain and _pity_ , of all things, in Corvo’s eyes is almost enough to make him cave. It doesn’t help that Corvo still thanks him without fail, still mutters Geoff’s name in his sleep, still has trust in the man who was once his friend – a man who is a coward, and a fool.

It takes about a week for one of them to snap – and it’s not Geoff.

“Wait,” Corvo says when Geoff is packing up his supplies. “Geoff –”

“That’s Captain Curnow to you,” Geoff bites out.

Corvo flinches at his harsh words, and Geoff has to look away to keep his composure. He rearranges the medical kit hastily, haphazardly, eager to flee – but as he is about to get up, Corvo snatches his wrist.

It’s assault. Touching an officer without their permission is assault. Corvo could be beaten for it, could be locked in the stocks, could have his execution date moved up, even. A small, desperate part of him wants to cry out, wants to give himself an excuse to stop coming into this cell almost every night, wants to make sure Corvo knows he can’t be on his side. But he has not grown quite that callous yet.

“What do you think you’re doing, Attano?”

Corvo immediately slackens his grip, though he doesn’t let go. “I didn’t do it, Geoff,” he says, urgently. “I didn’t kill Jessamine.”

Geoff makes the mistake of looking up at him, into those pleading brown eyes – the one part of him that hasn’t changed in prison, that still marks him as the same man Geoff got to know on that ship; a good man, a kind man, an _honest_ man.

And Geoff himself… isn’t any of those anymore.

“I know,” he says, because he does.

But it doesn’t change anything.

He pulls his wrist from Corvo’s grasp, snaps his medical kit shut, and goes.

But not before he sees Corvo’s eyes harden. Not before he knows that what he just did, what he just said, is irreversible.

When he makes his rounds later that evening, he listens to Corvo muttering in his sleep for a long while. Geoff’s name does not fall from his lips even once.

Good, he thinks, even as his heart throbs painfully in his chest.

* * *

It’s bend or break in Coldridge Prison, Geoff has known from day one. Even those with some sort of moral compass are eventually whipped into shape by the status quo, and even the most incorruptible captain can find himself forced to lean away from his values – because it’s bend or break, and it’s every man for himself.

But sometimes, there is no bend. There is only the breaking point.

For Geoff, that point arrives four months into his tenure as a prison guard.

They’re late bringing back Corvo tonight – not that he’s waiting for it, not that he’s glancing through the glass of his station every five minutes, not that he _cares_ – yet when they finally drag his near-unconscious form past Geoff’s post at almost four in the morning, there is no trail of blood following them as there usually is.

He cannot deny he is curious – _concerned_ , if he’s honest with himself, which he isn’t – and it’s nearly time for his rounds anyway, so he gets up and follows the trio of guardsmen escorting Corvo.

The guards seem even rowdier than usual tonight, more than one of the prisoners waking from their loud remarks and harsh laughter, and the scent of burnt flesh hangs nauseatingly strong in the air. Good, he thinks, even as his hands curl into fists. Burns don’t need cleaning.

They push Corvo into his cell as they always do, and Corvo falls with a strangled, odd-sounding noise, barely catching himself on his hands. It’s a noise that has the hair on the back of Geoff’s neck stand on end – because for Corvo to make any noise at all has to mean he’s in a particularly bad state. He would never give his tormentors the satisfaction otherwise.

“What’s the matter, filth?” one of the lower guards jeers at Corvo through the bars – they’re only ever brave enough to hurl insults from this side of the bars. “Golden cat got your tongue?”

Another noise escapes Corvo – one that can only be described as a whimper – and Geoff locks his shaking hands behind his back to keep himself from decking one of the bastards. Instead, he draws himself up tall and approaches.

“What’s going on here?” he asks sharply of the guardsmen, who, to his vicious satisfaction, jump at the sound of his voice. “You’re disturbing the prisoners.”

The one in the lead scoffs. “Just a spot of harmless fun, Cap,” he says, with a smile that’s all teeth. “Reckon that’s more important than these fuckers’ rest.”

Geoff digs his nails into his palm. “Go have your fun somewhere else,” he orders. “You wake them up, I have to deal with it. I don’t want them raising a ruckus.”

To his surprise, the guard and his colleagues laugh. “This one won’t be raising any ruckus,” he says, jabbing a thumb back in Corvo’s direction. “Mum’s the word, right?”

They snicker again, and Geoff feels a sense of dread swirling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to ask the question, but he does anyway. “Why is that?”

The guard grins languidly. “It’s hard to wag your tongue when you don’t have one.”

And _that_ , that exact moment, is when Geoff _breaks_.

“Sullivan _cut out his tongue_?” he asks – shrieks, more like, his voice too loud and pitched too high and filled with altogether far too much horror and indignation.

In his cell, Corvo curls further in on himself, both hands clasped over his mouth – and outside his cell, the three guards aren’t smiling anymore. “You got a problem with that?” one demands, stepping into Geoff’s space. “Huh? You got a problem with how we deal with Serkonan filth here in Gristol?”

It’s a thinly veiled threat – Geoff knows damn well that he, too, falls under the category of ‘Serkonan filth’ – and it reminds him just how thin the ice he’s skating on really is.

“I thought the Lord Regent wanted him to confess to the Empress’ murder,” he says, calmly, evenly, giving no indication of the fury burning hot just underneath his skin. He hasn’t managed to claw his way up to the rank of captain by giving in to goading. “That might be more difficult if he can’t speak.”

“He can write,” the guard shrugs callously. “All he needs is one good eye and two unbroken fingers. That’ll be all that’s left of him if he keeps denying his crimes.”

Geoff swallows back bile. “As long as the Lord Regent is satisfied.”

That’s a lie if he’s ever told one. He doesn’t think he’s ever despised anyone more than he does Hiram Burrows in that very moment – the man who ordered him away from the pavilion the day Empress Jessamine was murdered, the man whose radical new regulations have cost the lives of thousands, the man – the _bastard_ – who’s insisted on Corvo’s prolonged interrogation sessions despite not even _needing_ his confession, not truly. Whatever really happened at Dunwall Tower’s gazebo that day, Geoff is getting surer and surer that Burrows had a hand in it.

And now, this… this sickening escalation of Corvo’s torture, chipping away at him until there will hardly be anything left to kill during the execution – Geoff cannot believe he’s been so complacent, so _stupid_ , all this time. Sure, he’s been upholding the law, but what good is upholding the law when the law only pushes good men down?

Void, it doesn’t just push them down – it pushes them down and _holds_ them there, face planted in the dirt, beaten and starved and humiliated for all to see.

The lower guards guffaw again when Corvo scrambles to his feet, frantically rushing over to the cell’s toilet and vomiting blood and pus and bile – and Geoff has had enough. “You’ve had your amusement,” he snaps, perhaps harsher than is wise. “Get back to your posts.”

They scowl at him, but they keep their peace; he is a captain, and he outranks them, no matter how far beneath them they consider him. They move away from Corvo’s cell, still laughing, still too loud, but they’re going, and it isn’t long before silence descends back over cell block B.

Geoff allows himself three deep breaths – in, out, in, out, in, out – and then he returns to his station to find a basin and a glass. He fills the basin with lukewarm water, adds a few teaspoons of salt, and carries the items back to cell B5.

Corvo is still heaving over the toilet when he enters, and he flinches violently when Geoff sets the basin down beside him. The fact that he didn’t even hear Geoff coming speaks volumes of his state.

“Saltwater,” Geoff says, proffering him the glass. “You should rinse with it.”

Corvo doesn’t thank him this time – he won’t ever again. He _can’t_.

Instead, Geoff offers the parting sentiment before he leaves.

“I’m sorry, Corvo.”

It’s easy to make up his mind, after that. He cannot sit idly by and watch any longer, cannot remain a coward and a fool. He has to get Corvo out of Coldridge.

He _will_ get Corvo out of Coldridge.


	4. IV

It takes him nearly a fortnight to figure out a plan.

In that fortnight, Corvo spends hours upon hours in the interrogation room every night, returning to his cell so broken and battered he often doesn’t even regain consciousness before Geoff’s shift is over. They’ve not amputated anything else – _yet_ – but it’s clear the Royal Interrogator has long since stopped being _careful_.

Geoff doesn’t protest it. He cleans and wraps Corvo’s wounds with nary a word. He nods respectfully at Morris Sullivan and those who assist him when they pass each other in the halls. He works his shifts and runs his cell block and keeps his head down.

But he also assigns himself laundry duty, picking up the prisoners’ dirty uniforms at the end of his shifts, during breakfast time. He brings the trolley to the laundry room personally, because the laundry room is just past the locker room anyway, and he might as well drop it off before he goes home for the day.

It’s a minor thing – must be the Serkonan in him, they say again, and they think nothing of it – and by the end of the first week, no one bats an eye when he makes the rounds with his laundry trolley.

That is the first part of his plan.

The second part involves the yard schedule, detailing which prisoners from which cell block are allowed out at which times. Some of the more dangerous criminals, like Corvo, don’t ever get any yard time, but that is an extreme measure. Even the likes of Lizzy Stride, notorious leader of the Dead Eels, is allowed thirty minutes outside.

He pencils her in for eight in the morning, just after breakfast – and then he does the same for Lucas Penroe, prominent member of the Hatter Gang.

In theory, that’s nearly all there is to it. In practice…

Well. He won’t know until he puts his plan in motion.

By design, he begins his laundry round late that day. His shift is already over, officially – and he’ll be able to use that argument when the inevitable questions are asked. As of eight in the morning, cell block B and its prisoners are no longer his responsibility. Anything that happens in the next twelve hours is on Captain Verdun.

Geoff sticks to the shadows, pushes his trolley almost agonisingly slowly to keep the squeaky left wheel from making too much noise. He keeps his eyes peeled and his ears open as he makes his way through cell block B, inching closer and closer to Corvo’s cell. Any minute now. It’s ten past eight – it should happen any minute now.

Despite himself, he jumps when the harsh sound of the alarm blares throughout the corridors, and the speakers come to life with an ominous crackle. “Riot control, protocol eight! All available personnel to the yard, I repeat, all available personnel to the yard! Riot control, protocol eight!”

It’s instant chaos. Geoff ducks behind his trolley, listens to the pounding of boots as every guard rushes from their post down to the inner yard – to break apart Stride and Penroe and whomever else they roped into the fight, he imagines. Nothing spells trouble like a Dead Eel and a Hatter put together in close quarters.

It isn’t long before cell block B is devoid of guards.

The alarm is still blaring, the sound of it masking the squeak of the laundry trolley’s defective wheel as he moves it ahead of him with purpose. Geoff unlocks Corvo’s cell, pushes the trolley inside, and Corvo stares at him, bleary-eyed, the alarm likely having woken him. Thank Void he’s not still unconscious from Sullivan’s abuse, as Geoff had feared; they didn’t take him back to his cell until five that morning.

“Get in,” Geoff says – rasps, more like, his voice hoarse from the way his heart is hammering in his throat. This is so very illegal. “I’m breaking you out.”

The look of utter confusion on Corvo’s face might have been amusing, in different context. As is, Geoff finds preciously little about the situation amusing. “The riot in the yard won’t last forever,” he urges. “Get in the trolley. I have a plan.”

Corvo’s expression shifts from confusion to hope, then to trepidation. He has finally lost his faith in Geoff, it seems, because Geoff has been a coward and a fool all this time – but no longer. Perhaps he is a fool still, but he is not a coward. Not now, not ever again.

Corvo still doesn’t move, brows knitting together in concern – but not for himself. He points at Geoff’s chest with a shaking finger, at the insignia pinned proudly on his officer’s coat. It’s clear what he means to express. _What will happen if you get caught?_

He’ll be occupying a cell in this very block himself, for the rest of his life – which he has no doubt will be cut short. They will make an example of him, of the corrupt officer of the law who tried to help a convicted murderer escape.

But he knew all of that going in. And he has made his choice.

“Corvo, get in the damn trolley or I will knock you out and drag you in myself,” he hisses, anxiously looking over his shoulder to check for returning guards. “We don’t have time for this!”

That does the trick; Corvo nods, eyes hardening in resolve, and he clambers into the laundry trolley. Geoff rearranges the dirty uniforms with deft fingers, making sure Corvo’s entire form is covered, not even a hair visible underneath the pile of drab grey. It cannot be a pleasant experience, being buried in worn clothes, but comfort isn’t Geoff’s main concern – not yet, in any case. When he’s gotten Corvo out, he’ll gladly see to his comfort every day to make up for these months of unjust pain and suffering. But he needs to actually manage to get Corvo away from Coldridge first.

He haphazardly spreads out the blanket on Corvo’s cot, making it seem as though Corvo is merely asleep after a long night of being interrogated. They won’t come to check on him before lunch, if then; they likely won’t even know he’s missing until someone comes to collect him for his afternoon interrogation session.

Geoff pushes the laundry trolley back out into the hallway, the wheels squeaking louder with the additional weight of a grown man – and just as he’s closing the door behind him, the alarm shuts off.

“Shit,” he mutters. He’d hoped he would have more time to get to the locker room unseen.

He moves at a brisk pace, wincing at the high-pitched squeak of the trolley’s wheel. Thankfully, the prisoners are used to the sound, and those who came to see what the alarm was all about have long since returned to their cots, unable to gleam anything from the empty corridor. He makes it out of cell block B without incident, and he finds that the guard station is still abandoned – but he also hears loud voices coming from the hall leading to the inner yard.

He all but sprints the last stretch, yanking open the door to the locker room and pushing the trolley inside. Geoff rushes in after it, then immediately pushes one of the benches up against the door. It won’t stop anyone trying to enter, but it will deter them hopefully long enough for Corvo to hide, should it come to that.

“Come on,” he says as he begins to move the dirty clothes off Corvo’s form. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Corvo hoists himself out, and Geoff moves to the locker assigned to him, digging around for the lower guard uniform he managed to secure from the barracks. That, to his surprise, was the most difficult part of his preparations; captains don’t have any reason to need a lower Watch guard’s attire, and getting his hands on the clothes was a challenge. He could have brought his spare captain’s uniform, but that would have been too risky. Officers are well-known amongst the Watch, and an unfamiliar face might spark suspicion. Lower guards, however, are a dime a dozen, especially in this time of plague when everyone and their mother wants to sign up for the City Watch to get a steady ration of Sokolov’s Elixir.

“Wash your face and put this on,” he instructs, laying the bundle of clothes down on one of the benches. “Hide your hair under the cap.”

Corvo obeys immediately, quickly scrubbing the dirt and blood from his face in one of the sinks before shrugging out of his prisoner’s uniform. Geoff looks away, feeling, oddly, as though he’s intruding. It’s a ridiculous notion; he’s seen nearly everything there is to see taking care of Corvo’s wounds. But that was born out of necessity. Watching Corvo as he changes clothes feels much more personal – and much more improper.

He presses his ear to the door instead, listens intently to the sounds of the guards returning to their posts. None seem to be moving anywhere close to the locker room – and why would they, really, when the shift change was half an hour ago now.

A frustrated grunt has him whipping his head around to find Corvo pressing a hand to his side, where blood has soaked through the bandage Geoff applied only just that night – and in turn, has soaked into the off-white shirt that’s part of the lower guards’ uniform.

“Dammit,” he curses, softly, but with feeling. It’s not so much the shirt he’s concerned about – that will be hidden well enough underneath the jacket – but Corvo is already too weak even without actively bleeding through his clothes.

“We’ll have to walk quite a ways,” Geoff murmurs, eyes glued to the slowly expanding red patch on Corvo’s shirt. “Do you think you can make it?”

Corvo nods, resolutely. It’s not like they have much of a choice, in any case. They’ve come too far to turn back now.

Geoff helps Corvo into the uniform’s coat, then reaches up to gather Corvo’s shoulder-length hair, greasy and matted from days, if not weeks, of poor hygiene. He tucks it all away underneath the cloth cap that comes with the uniform, leaving none the wiser as to its state. The unruly, unkempt beard is unfortunate, but there’s little that can be done about it.

All in all, Corvo at least looks the part of a lower guard.

“Alright,” Geoff says, looking him over with a critical eye, “that’ll do. Let’s go.”

He drags the bench away from the door, and, with a deep breath, steps back out into the corridor.

Corvo follows behind him, exactly two steps, keeping the distance a subordinate should keep from his captain. It’s easy to tell he served in the Watch before he was appointed Royal Protector; his gait is military, practised, and despite the slight hitch in his step, despite the odd way he’s pressing his elbow to his side to keep pressure on his bleeding wound, he doesn’t stick out amidst the other guards milling about.

After a brief stop to drop off the trolley at the laundry room, to ensure nothing is left out of place, Geoff leads Corvo to the front gate – _through_ the front gate – and onto the bridge connecting Coldridge Prison to Dunwall Tower. It’s not raining, for once, the air crisp but not freezing cold. Geoff can hear Corvo’s breath hitch when they step outside, when he takes his first lungful of fresh air in almost half a year’s time. That small noise alone is enough to make all of this madness worthwhile.

Across the bridge, then through Dunwall Tower’s grounds, is the only way to get from Coldridge back to the city proper – save for jumping into the Wrenhaven or trekking through the rat-infested sewers, which are both excellent ways to get oneself killed. Not that marching across the grounds in full view of Burrows’ personal guard is much better, mind, but as long as Corvo keeps his head down, they should be fine. No one here ever pays any attention to the prison guards.

Except, of course, for today. “Captain Curnow!”

A young guardsman comes jogging up to them, face split in a wide grin. Geoff knows him well. “Corporal Evans,” he greets, attempting his best to seem pleased to see him. Under different circumstances, he would have been; Evans was part of his squad, before Geoff was transferred to Coldridge. “What are you doing here?”

“I was promoted, sir,” Evans says, proudly puffing out his chest. “It’s Sergeant Evans now. I’m on waterlock duty.”

“I see. Congratulations,” Geoff offers, sincerely. Evans has worked hard to get where he is. “I’m sorry, Evans, but I have some matters to attend to today, so if you don’t mind –”

Evans looks past him at Corvo, standing calmly behind Geoff in a parade rest, his head bowed. “Couldn’t resist picking up a protégé even in prison, huh?” he grins. “Are you going to – hey, are you alright?”

Geoff whips around, and he barely suppresses a curse; blood has seeped into Corvo’s coat, colouring a patch of it darker than the rest, and Evans is staring at it in horror. “We have a first aid kit back at the lock if you –”

“No,” Geoff says immediately, harshly. “He’s still on duty. He can go to the infirmary on his own time.”

His tone takes Evans aback. “But sir, if he’s injured –”

“If he didn’t want to be injured, he shouldn’t have misplaced his sword and gone against orders. He won’t so much as breathe without my direct say-so now. Is that clear, Evans?”

Something shifts in Evans’ expression. “Understood, _sir_ ,” he says, barely-repressed scorn clear in his voice. He needs to be careful; if he speaks to any officer but Geoff that way, there will be consequences for his insolence. “I have to return to my post.”

He turns on his heel and stalks away, and Geoff watches him go with a mixture of despair and relief. Evans must think so little of him now, and he hates the thought of having disappointed one of the men who used to be under his command – but at least Evans didn’t recognise Corvo. At least his callous act was not in vain.

Geoff turns to Corvo, who gives him a look that’s half pain and half, of all things, apologetic. “None of that,” he says bluntly. He knew damn well what he was getting into when he decided to break Corvo out of Coldridge. “We have to keep moving.”

Corvo nods, falling back into step two paces behind him, and Dunwall Tower slowly but surely grows smaller and smaller at their backs.

 _Almost_. They’re almost there.


	5. V

They take a carriage to the Legal District, which is the closest station to Geoff’s home. He usually doesn’t care to pay for a carriage when he can just as easily – and cheaply – take the ferry, but in the name of speed and privacy, he’s glad to make an exception today. Corvo is looking positively pallid, and Geoff can’t have him collapse before they’re safely behind closed doors.

The walk to the outskirts of the Legal District feels like it takes forever, but finally, _finally_ , the old Curnow family home looms in the distance. They’re almost there.

“See that building there, with the balcony and the scaffolding?” he mutters. “That’s where we’re headed. Go into the adjacent alley on the left, there’s a side door. I’ll take the front door and let you in through there. Alright?”

Corvo’s eyes are unfocused, his brow gleaming with sweat, but he nods determinedly. _Almost there_.

They split, looking to all the world like they’re going in opposite directions, and Geoff’s fingers are shaking as he turns his key in the lock. The house smells like dust – he’s barely been here at all since he was transferred to Coldridge, the guard’s barracks in the Tower District closer and more convenient and much less fraught with painful memories of times long gone.

He swiftly closes the living room curtains, just for security, and then goes to let Corvo inside. The second he unlocks the side door, Corvo stumbles through it, nearly crashing to the floor right there and then. Geoff holds him steady, kicks the door closed and locks it, and –

 _They made it_.

He almost wants to laugh. There are still a million things to worry about, like Corvo’s injuries and the inquiry that is sure to follow Corvo’s escape, not to mention the continuous illegal activity of harbouring a fugitive in his home – but they made it. They just pulled off the first ever breakout from Coldridge Prison.

It’s a lot to take in, and there’s a lot to consider – but first thing’s first, and that is taking care of Corvo’s bleeding wound.

“Come on,” Geoff says, wrapping an arm securely around Corvo’s waist, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

Corvo allows himself to be led, shuffling along as best he can. Geoff pushes the door of the downstairs bathroom open with his shoulder, sets Corvo down atop the rim of the bathtub and goes to fetch supplies from the medicine cabinet.

Corvo tries admirably to rid himself of his jacket and shirt, but it’s clear every movement is agony; Geoff instead takes a pair of forceps to the clothes, carefully peeling the fabric away from the wound. It’s deep, deeper than anything Sullivan dared to inflict on him before, and there is an angry red rim to it that looks despairingly like the beginning of an infection.

“Drink this,” Geoff orders, handing Corvo a vial of Sokolov’s Elixir as he prepares a suture kit. “It will stave off the infection.” 

But Corvo shakes his head, pushing the elixir back into Geoff’s hands.

“What –?” Geoff nearly drops the vial in his surprise. “I know the taste is foul, but you need it.”

Corvo shakes his head again, his brow furrowed in frustration – Geoff should see about finding him a legal pad and a pen, when he can – and he points at the elixir, then at Geoff himself.

“Me? I don’t need – oh!” It suddenly dawns on him what Corvo means to say. “This isn’t part of my rations. I bought extra, when… well, when the plague turned out to be more serious than we initially thought. It’s for emergencies.”

His officer’s salary had afforded him about a dozen additional elixirs, though he doubts he could buy even one vial with the same amount of coin now that the plague has the entire city in its grasp. After what happened to his family, having some surplus just seemed like the logical thing to do.

And Void, even if this elixir _were_ part of his rations, even if it meant he would have to go without full protection from the plague for a day, he would still have given it to Corvo. Geoff owes him that much, at least.

Corvo takes his word at face value – so much trust he has, still – and drinks down the elixir as Geoff turns on the tap and wets a cloth with tepid water. Cleaning and disinfecting Corvo’s injuries has become so commonplace he could probably do it in his sleep by now – though this is by far the worst wound he’s seen, jagged in a way that suggests Sullivan used a curved blade to pierce the flesh. It looks gruesome, and he already knows it will leave a nasty scar.

Geoff threads a needle, kneeling by Corvo’s side, and Corvo sucks in a deep breath when the sharp tip pierces his flesh. “Sorry,” Geoff mutters, even as he keeps going. He hates having to cause Corvo any more pain after all he’s already endured, but these sutures are necessary. Corvo can’t afford to lose any more blood.

Corvo lays a hand on his shoulder – both as a comfort and to support himself. He looks as though he could pass out any minute now.

Geoff works quickly; the stitches are ugly and uneven, but they’re functional. He hides them underneath a fresh bandage anyway, letting Corvo rest his weight against his torso as he wraps the wounds as best he can. It’s not his cleanest work, but it will do.

Geoff helps him to his feet again, allows Corvo to lean heavily on him as he guides them back out into the hallway, then into a bedroom three doors down the hall. It’s cluttered, a few half-packed boxes littering the floor; he and Callista had begun to clean out the rooms, before she, too, vanished from his life, and he hasn’t had the time or the desire to continue the work alone. Geoff still hopes she’s out there somewhere, safe and cared for – she’s clever, and resourceful, and Void but he hopes that will be enough to ensure her survival.

Corvo all but collapses onto the bed, barely managing to stay seated as Geoff hurries to close the curtains. It won’t do to have a noisy neighbour peer through the window.

“Alright,” he sighs, feeling weariness creep up on him as the adrenaline of the jailbreak ebbs away. “You know where the bathroom is. I’ll be in the next room, first door to the right, if you need anything. And,” – he rummages through one of the drawers of the nightstand, unearthing an old, barely-used notebook and a pencil – “here. So you can – you know.”

Corvo’s eyes light up, and he immediately takes the pencil, scribbling two words onto the first blank page of the notebook.

 _Thank you_.

An overwhelming surge of affection wells in his chest – of course that would be the first thing to come to Corvo’s mind. Even after all those months in Coldridge, after all he has endured, they didn’t manage to break him. He is still good and kind and honest and _Corvo_ , and Geoff is beyond grateful for that fact.

“Get some rest,” he says, because saying anything more profound would prompt a conversation they’re both too tired to have right now. “Void knows you need it.”

Geoff heads for his own room, barely remembering to take off his boots and shrug off his coat before he crawls under the covers.

He sleeps more soundly than he has in months.

* * *

Inevitably, at around one in the afternoon, he is awoken by the loud, high-pitched sound of the alarm that’s only used for matters of national security, and the loudspeaker message that follows.

“ _Attention, Dunwall citizens. The assassin Corvo Attano, responsible for the murder of our fair Empress and the disappearance of Lady Emily, heir to the throne, has temporarily escaped state custody. Any evidence as to his whereabouts must be delivered to the City Watch at once_.”

And – that’s it.

There’s no call for Geoff’s arrest, no pounding on his door, no guards crowding the streets. They haven’t figured him out, at least so far. He’ll still have to tread carefully in the days to come, but this, at least, is a relief.

When he stumbles, bleary-eyed, into the hallway, Corvo is just slipping out of his room as well, his new notebook tucked under his arm. He’s still bare-chested, still black and blue and bandaged and dishevelled, but he already looks marginally better than before, his eyes clear and sharp after a few hours of proper rest.

“Afternoon, Corvo,” Geoff yawns, running a hand through his likely spectacularly bedraggled hair. “Sleep alright?”

Corvo smiles warmly – Void, he’s missed that smile – and hums an affirmative.

“Breakfast?” he asks next, and when Corvo nods, he steers them both in the direction of the kitchen. “I haven’t been home in a while; I’m afraid almost all of what I have is tinned. I’ll stop by the grocer’s after my shift tomorrow morning.”

 _It can’t be worse than prison food_ , Corvo writes in his notebook, smiling wryly.

“Don’t challenge me,” Geoff warns, and he is rewarded with a low chuckle. He opens the pantry, and grimaces. “Well, aside from brined hagfish and whale meat, all I have are some oats. No milk, so I’ll have to heat them with water. There should be some cinnamon somewhere, though. Or brown sugar. You have a preference?”

He looks back at Corvo, who shrugs noncommittally, something despondent in his eyes. He writes, _It doesn’t matter. I don’t taste much anymore_.

Geoff nearly drops the oats. “Right,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Of course not, I didn’t think… I didn’t _think_.”

 _It’s alright_ , Corvo scribbles down immediately.

“It’s not,” Geoff denies, because it isn’t. He turns away, measuring oats and water and cinnamon into a pan with shaking fingers. “If I’d gotten you out sooner, if I hadn’t been such a Voiddamned _coward_ , you would still – you wouldn’t have had to –”

He cuts himself off when there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting in a way he doesn’t at all deserve.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because it is all he has to offer. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The hand on his shoulder falls away, and instead, arms wrap around his middle, pulling his back flush with Corvo’s chest. Corvo rests his chin on Geoff’s shoulder, face buried in his neck, and Geoff… _breathes_.

He curls his hands around Corvo’s, hugs the arms that are holding him, and he just breathes – because if he tries to do anything more, he knows he’ll fall apart right here and now, and he _can’t_. He doesn’t have the right, not when it was Corvo who was falsely imprisoned and tortured for months on end while Geoff spent his days on the other side of the bars, watching an innocent man being stripped of his dignity and doing _nothing_ to stop it.

The breathing helps, and Geoff pulls himself together, glues the broken pieces of his person back into something resembling a functioning human being. He lets go of Corvo’s hands, busies himself instead with getting the pan on the stove and actually cooking the damn lacklustre oatmeal Corvo won’t be able to taste. Corvo stays where he is, his tall form curled around Geoff as he works, and it feels… oddly normal. Domestic, even.

Until he feels something wet soaking through his shirt, and he realises he’s not the only one having trouble keeping it together.

He has the mind to turn off the stove before he turns in Corvo’s hold and carefully returns the hug, mindful of Corvo’s injuries. Corvo clings to him, sobbing quietly into his shoulder while Geoff rubs gentle circles on his back. He doesn’t say a word, just lets Corvo cry – Void knows he needs it, after everything – and only when Corvo pulls back, a good while later, does Geoff let go.

Corvo wipes at his eyes, and Geoff turns away to give him some time to regain his composure, busying himself with pouring the now lukewarm oatmeal into bowls. “It’s, uh,” he has to clear his throat, his voice raw from holding back tears. “It’s gone cold.”

Geoff carries the bowls over to the kitchen table anyway, and Corvo manages a soft smile that clashes horribly with his red-rimmed eyes. He opens his notebook again, tapping the words _Thank you_ with the blunt end of his pencil.

“Of course,” he says. This, at least, he can accept gratitude for.

They sit down in silence, though Corvo does scribble furiously into his notebook as he eats, writing something then crossing it back out and starting over. Geoff tries his best not to stare – both at Corvo’s writing and the peculiar way he’s forced to eat, now – but before long, the notebook is shoved his way, with a force he wasn’t expecting.

Corvo has filled nearly a full page of the pocket-sized book with a hastily scrawled message, though a large part of the words he crossed out again. _You are not a coward_, the first legible sentence reads, the word ‘not’ underlined three times. _You sprung me from prison. You broke the law because of me. For me. Because you believed me when no one else did. You risked everything to get me out, and I will forever be grateful. You have nothing to apologise for_.

It’s as though he’s determined to make Geoff cry today. “Corvo, I –”

Corvo stops him with a hand on his forearm, flips back the page of his notebook so he can, once again, tap the words _Thank you_.

Well. He can’t really argue with that anymore. “You’re welcome.”

Corvo’s answering smile is breathtaking.


	6. VI

They find themselves back in the bathroom after breakfast, both so Geoff can check on Corvo’s wounds and so Corvo can properly clean himself for what has to be the first time since he was incarcerated. Geoff would draw him a proper bath, but with Corvo’s stitched-up injury and plethora of other cuts and scrapes and bruises, that’s not the smartest idea.

Instead, Corvo washes himself as best he can with warm water, and Geoff looks over the less serious injuries they were both too tired to address before. Geoff also helps Corvo wash out his hair, since raising his arms above his head pulls at his stitches. He thinks that’ll be all – but once again, Corvo surprises him when he points at Geoff’s shaving kit, an inquisitive look on his face.

They left the notebook in the living room, not wanting to dampen the paper, and Geoff has to interpret the question for him. “You want to shave?” he guesses. “Understandable, but I’m not sure that’s wise, Corvo. Your hands aren’t exactly steady.”

Corvo shakes his head, frustration creasing his brow. It’s obvious he misses his notebook, but he does his best to make himself understandable without it, pointing again at the shaving kit, then at Geoff himself, and he cocks his head in a clear question.

“You want _me_ to shave you?” Geoff cannot keep the incredulity from his tone.

Corvo flinches, looks away and shrugs his shoulders, as if to deny the question he couldn’t ask – but Geoff knows perfectly well what he meant with those gestures, and he’s having a hard time wrapping his head around it.

“I didn’t mean I won’t, I just – Void,” Geoff says, dragging a hand across his face. “Are you sure you want me to? After everything that happened…”

How can he trust another person coming close to him with a sharp object ever again? How can he trust _Geoff_ , after he spent so many days, weeks, _months_ watching Corvo suffer and doing nothing to stop it? How can he trust at all?

He does trust, though, no matter how amazing Geoff finds it. That much becomes apparent when Corvo stands and places a careful hand on Geoff’s chest, a flat palm resting right over his heart. The touch coupled with the kind look in Corvo’s eyes steals the breath from Geoff’s lungs, and he thinks his heart just might tear through his ribcage and come to rest in Corvo’s palm.

 _Where it belongs_ , Geoff doesn’t allow himself to think.

He steps back before he can lose himself in the kind touch he does not deserve, and fetches his shaving kit and a basin of water. If Corvo trusts him enough to do this, then he’ll damn well do it, and do it properly.

Geoff has Corvo sit on the floor with his back against the bathtub, head leaned back against the ceramic rim. He’s shaved people before; his nephews, before the days of the plague, when they needed someone to teach them how to shave; his friends from the Watch, on occasions when they couldn’t do it themselves; even a lover once, during the days of Fugue – but that’s not something he needs to think about right now.

Yet despite his experience, his hands are undeniably clumsy when he dips the brush into the shaving cream and spreads it across the mess of a beard that’s grown unchecked for months on end. Not that he’s graceful even on the best of days, but he’s fumbling much worse than usual – and he knows it’s because his eyes keep getting drawn to Corvo’s lips, where they have absolutely no business lingering.

It’s a stroke of luck that Corvo doesn’t notice, his eyes fluttering closed as the brush strikes across his lower face. Geoff still can’t fathom how he does it, how he brings up the amount of trust necessary to close his eyes while another touches his face – but Geoff can at least make sure that his trust is not misplaced. So he forces his hands to steady, forces his eyes to stop wandering, and picks up the straight razor.

Geoff takes a gentle hold of Corvo’s chin, guiding his head to the side with a featherlight touch. “Hold still,” he says, lifting the razor, and –

And the razor is sent flying, harshly smacked from his hand, and it’s only his instinct and years of working as a captain of the Watch that prevents him from being thrown flat on his back, his other hand catching Corvo’s elbow before he can crash his forearm straight into Geoff’s throat. The look in Corvo’s eyes is one of panic and anger and _pain_ , and it’s not difficult to imagine that this was the expression he wore while he was chained down in that Voidawful chair in Coldridge’s interrogation room, being subjected to unspeakable horrors.

“Corvo, stop!”

Corvo immediately jerks back as if stung, letting his arm fall out of Geoff’s grasp. The look in his eyes morphs into one of dread and sorrow, and a sound makes its way past his lips, as though he meant to speak, and forgot, for a moment, that he cannot.

“That was… a poor choice of words,” Geoff says, his voice slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry, I should have realised.”

Corvo shakes his head, lifts his hands as though he means to gesture, then realises he has nothing to replace his lost words with. His frustration is palpable, his remorse even more so, and Geoff lays a careful hand on Corvo’s shin.

“It’s alright,” Geoff murmurs. He doesn’t need to hear the apology to know what Corvo was trying to say. “Let’s try it another way.”

He picks up the straight razor where it dropped on the floor, rinsing it quickly in the basin of water. “Hold my wrist,” he says. “You’ll be able to sense my movements, and you can stop me if you feel threatened, or uncomfortable.”

Corvo does as Geoff says, taking his wrist in a light grasp. There’s something hesitant in his eyes still, but he nods regardless, and Geoff repositions himself so he can reach Corvo’s face while Corvo holds onto his wrist. He ends up all but straddling Corvo’s legs in the process, but it doesn’t matter – doing this right, showing Corvo his trust is not misplaced, is more important than anything right now.

Geoff lifts his free hand to Corvo’s face, showcasing his every movement, and guides it to the side once again. He doesn’t tell him to hold still this time, but he does give a fair warning. “I’m going to begin now.”

Corvo looks at him from the corner of his eye, giving another small nod. Geoff raises the razor to his face again, Corvo’s hand still wrapped securely around his wrist, and he makes the first stroke.

It’s slow going. Corvo’s beard grew in fast and thick, and Corvo interrupts the process by tugging on Geoff’s wrist from time to time, just so he can ensure he is still in control of the situation. Geoff lets him, simply waits until Corvo loosens his grip again and nods at him to continue. He doesn’t speak a word the entire time, joins Corvo in his silence, and slowly but surely, the hair gives way, leaving Corvo clean shaven for the first time in months.

Geoff sets the razor down and reaches for a small bottle of winterbloom extract, which soothes the skin after a shave. He doesn’t even think about it, just lets a few drops of it drip onto his fingers before he raises his hands to Corvo’s face again, slowly rubbing the oil-like substance into his skin. He’s so intent on his task he doesn’t even realise Corvo’s gaze on him, not until he’s finished and lowers his hands again. Corvo is looking at him with something impossibly soft in those dark eyes of his, and Geoff is suddenly, immediately aware of their close proximity, of their compromising position, and he almost forgets to breathe.

He doesn’t even want to know what Corvo could read in his expression, and Geoff averts his gaze, eyes lingering briefly on Corvo’s lips again before he pulls back entirely, sitting up on his haunches to just _get away_ from Corvo before he does something he will never be able to take back.

“That should do it,” he says, breaking the silence – and with it, the spell.

Corvo rubs his hand across his face, feeling the smoothness of his skin, and the smile he graces Geoff with speaks more gratitude than any words ever could.

“You’re welcome,” Geoff says. “Now shoo, Attano. I need to wash up before my shift.”

Corvo nods and stands, still absentmindedly rubbing at his face, and he is sure to squeeze Geoff’s shoulder on his way out, a warm, kind touch Geoff thinks he might actually have earned, this time.

It’s progress.

* * *

He has to return to Coldridge at night.

The mere idea of it is nerve-racking, and Geoff spends the ferry ride to the Tower District restlessly tapping his fingers against his thigh. He has no idea what has happened at the prison since he broke Corvo out that morning, and he cannot stop himself from imagining the worst case scenario. What if they _know_? What if they know he was the one who broke Corvo out of his cell, and they’re just waiting for him to come into work because they know he cannot afford to be absent? What if he’s arrested the second he sets foot onto the premises? 

It’s a foolish thought to have – he’s been in the Watch for almost two decades now, and he knows perfectly well they would have rung the alarm for his arrest hours ago if they suspected him of foul play. But he cannot shake the feeling of unease, and walking into Coldridge feels very much like walking to his own execution.

Seeing General Tobias standing in the middle of his usual post does absolutely nothing to alleviate his anxiety, and Geoff has to take a deep breath before he steps inside. This is it. His whole life is going to be decided right here and now.

“Ah, Curnow,” Tobias says when he enters. “Good. A word, if you would.”

It is not a request, and Geoff nods calmly despite the fact that his heart is hammering in his chest. “Of course, General.”

Tobias has him sit down. “You know what happened this morning, I presume?” he asks, though he gives Geoff no chance to answer. “Corvo Attano broke out of his cell. _The Empress’ murderer_ is on the loose. Somehow, our most prolific prisoner got out right underneath Verdun’s nose, and we have _no idea_ how it happened.” He rakes a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “You kept order here, Curnow. Prisoners were quiet under your command; guards have their complaints, but that’s to be expected when you work them hard. This wouldn’t have happened under your watch.”

Geoff can’t quite believe what he’s hearing – but he’s not about to contradict Tobias’ very, very incorrect conclusions. “Thank you, General,” he says, trying his best to sound sincere. He’s still half-expecting a platoon to descend on him at any given moment. “I merely did what I had to.”

That, at least, is not a lie.

Tobias sits down himself now, the very movement of it heavy. It’s not difficult to imagine how much strain he must be under, with Hiram Burrows breathing down his neck. Geoff almost feels bad for him. Almost. “I want to know how Attano acted, during your nightshifts,” Tobias demands, leaning forward as though he hopes Geoff will be able to hand him all the answers on a silver platter. “Do you have any idea how he could have pulled this off, or where he would have gone after escaping?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” he says, but slowly, as though he really is thinking about it. “Attano was quiet, for the most part. I patched him up from time to time, made sure he’d be ready for the next round with the Royal Interrogator, but he hardly ever spoke a word, even before he lost his tongue. He did talk in his sleep, but in Serkonan, mostly. I couldn’t make much sense of it. I suppose it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine he might want to try and find a way to return to his native Isle.”

Tobias sighs. “We thought of that. There’s a blockade; no ships are coming in or out of Dunwall – at least not legally. And we just don’t have enough manpower to keep a close enough eye on smuggling activity. He could slip right by us and we’d never even know it.”

Geoff schools his features into an exaggerated frown. “Containing smuggling seems like it ought to be a priority in any case, considering the plague,” he says, selecting his every word carefully. “Having more supervision along the riverfront could be beneficial, if you could spare a squad, General.”

“I can’t spare a squad,” Tobias says matter-of-factly. “But… I could _create_ one. Take some men from other postings, perhaps. I’m sure those in the Flooded District would be more than happy for the transfer – they can be replaced by some of the men in here, now that I’m closing off this cell block.”

Geoff’s breath hitches at that. Closing the cell block from which Corvo escaped means closing _his_ cell block, which means… “Am I being transferred too, General?”

He can’t quite keep the hope from his tone – the Flooded District is far, far from the most desirable posting, but at least he’ll be back out in the field, doing good work again. At least he’ll be free of this prison, both literally and figuratively.

Tobias nods the affirmative. “Yes. There’s no need to keep an additional captain here in Coldridge – why you were assigned this post in the first place is a mystery to me. Your service record is too good for you to be stowed away here, Curnow.”

Geoff knows exactly why he was stationed here in Coldridge, but he wisely holds his tongue. He doesn’t need to give Tobias a reason to reconsider his transfer. “Do I report to the Flooded District tomorrow night, then?”

“No,” Tobias denies. “You will report to the Old Waterfront, the day after tomorrow. This new squad supervising the smuggling activity will be your responsibility, Captain.”

It’s almost too good to be true. Not only will he be able to leave Coldridge behind, he’ll also get a decent posting, nothing as perilous as the Flooded District – and he will be the one responsible for trying to find Corvo, while the man himself is safely hidden away in Geoff’s own home. It feels like something out of a bad penny novel.

He will, of course, still have to be extremely careful – Tobias will want results, and Geoff can’t seem like he’s slacking off on the search for Corvo. He’ll have to crack down hard on the smuggling activity if he wants to stay in the clear. But after walking a tightrope in Coldridge these past few months, Geoff is sure he can manage. He _will_ manage.

“Yes, General Tobias,” he says, saluting his commanding officer. “I will do everything in my power to find Attano.”

It’s just a shame he is all but powerless when it comes to Corvo Attano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shit right here is why 'Shaving' had to be its own tag.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the tags folks.

It’s later than usual when Geoff leaves Coldridge Prison the next morning – for the very last time. He spent his final nightshift overseeing the move of the prisoners on cell block B to the other cell blocks; there is more than enough room in Coldridge, with the plague killing criminals faster than they can be caught. But the transfers had to happen under heavy supervision, now that Coldridge has suffered its first successful jailbreak, and it’s taken the entire shift to get everything done.

But now he’s free, in more ways than one, and despite feeling very much exhausted, Geoff whistles softly to himself as he picks up a load of groceries that will last them at least a week. He doesn’t yet know how much time this new squad will take up, so he would rather stack up on essentials. If he ever has to work an extra shift again, he doesn’t want Corvo to go hungry.

Of course, he also has no idea how long these arrangements are going to last, with Corvo hiding away in his family home, but that’s not something he needs to consider just yet. Corvo can stay as long as necessary – and even beyond that, if he wants to. But again – that’s not a path he needs his thoughts to wander down.

Geoff comes home to find Corvo curled up on the sofa in the corner of the living room, carefully positioned out of sight from the windows. He has his nose buried in a book, but the second he hears Geoff enter, his head snaps up, his hand twitching towards the knife he placed on the coffee table – taken from the kitchen, Geoff realises. He must’ve been too paranoid to just sit here alone and unarmed, and Geoff can’t fault him for that.

“It’s just me,” he says, though it’s unnecessary; Corvo has already dropped his hand back down, and the smile that lights up his face at the sight of Geoff is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to.

Corvo puts down his book and lifts his hands, making a hesitant series of choppy gestures that have Geoff frowning at him in confusion. “What?”

Corvo’s smile wanes a bit, some of the brightness leaving his eyes, and he lowers his hands again, picking up the book he’d been reading and holding it up so Geoff can see. _Communication through signs_ , it reads on the cover, and Geoff understands.

“Where did you find that?” he asks. He remembers the book, vaguely, as something one of his uncles liked to study. He’d been a soldier in Gristol’s military, and he’d wanted to learn to use hand signals out in the field. As Geoff recalls it, he never got very far – the plague hit before he could even finish reading the book himself, let alone teach the signals to any of the others in his squad.

Corvo puts the book back down and picks up his notebook instead, writing his answer. _In the library_ , he writes, nodding vaguely in the direction of the hallway. _I hope you don’t mind_.

“Of course not,” Geoff assures him immediately. “You can go wherever you want here, Corvo. This isn’t a prison cell.”

But it is, at least to some extent. Geoff’s home is more comfortable than Coldridge is, surely, but Corvo is still confined to this place. He is a wanted man, to be captured or killed on sight, and he cannot just go out onto the street as things stand. He’s out of prison, yes, but he is still _trapped_.

Corvo seems to follow his train of thought, gracing Geoff with a smile that’s equal parts melancholy and gratitude, and he turns to his notebook again, scribbling down a question that’s a very unsubtle change of subject. _How did it go today?_

Geoff can’t help the chuckle that escapes him as he lets himself sink down onto the sofa next to Corvo. “Unexpectedly well,” he says. He still can’t quite believe how lucky he’s been – how lucky they’ve _both_ been, really. Had he been caught, they would undoubtedly have stormed his home and dragged Corvo right back to Coldridge. “They have no idea how you got out, and they think you’ll try to slip through the blockade to flee to another Isle; Serkonos, most likely. General Tobias is putting together a squad that will be responsible for river patrol, and _I’ll_ be the captain in charge of that.”

Corvo’s eyes widen, almost comically so – and then his face twists into that concerned expression Geoff has become very familiar with these past few months. He flips the page of his notebook and writes, _It’s dangerous. You won’t ‘find’ me. They might call it incompetence and use it against you_.

“I know,” Geoff sighs, because he does know. No good thing ever comes without strings attached. “But it’s not as though a single squad can have eyes on the entire riverfront at once. And this way we can at least try to contain the smuggling activity, make sure no one breaks quarantine. That will help halt the spread of the plague, at the very least, and I’m honestly just glad to be doing something worthwhile again.”

Geoff can see in Corvo’s expression that he understands, though it doesn’t stop him from writing something else in his notebook. _Please be careful._

That, he can promise. “I will.”

He reaches for the book Corvo had been reading, flipping it open to the first page. “Now, what were those signs you made before? I’d like to learn.”

Corvo shifts closer, so close his thigh ends up pressed against Geoff’s – Void, does this man have any idea what he does to him on a daily basis? – and reaches over to turn the page.

They spend most of the day like that, attempting to learn a handful of signs that might make communication a bit easier – including, Geoff doesn’t fail to realise, the sign for ‘ _thank you_ ’. There is a lot to learn, and it will take a good while before they’ll be able to talk to one another without using the notebook, but at least they’ve made a start.

It finally feels like life is starting to move forward again.

* * *

Geoff wakes in the middle of the night.

His body has grown so accustomed to the nightshifts that staying awake during the day and sleeping these hours feels strangely unnatural. He tosses and turns for a while, trying to force his body to fall back asleep, but it’s no use. He just ends up staring at the ceiling, and that’s a complete waste of time. If he has to be awake, he might as well do something useful.

He slips out of his bedroom with the intention of heating some ox milk and perhaps flipping through the book on signs again. But those plans go right out the window when he passes Corvo’s room and hears a _voice_ coming from inside.

Geoff’s heart leaps into his throat, because Corvo no longer has a voice, Corvo no longer has a _tongue_ , so who in the Void –?

But then there’s a _shout_ , and the sudden realisation feels like sticking his head in a bucket of ice water. Because he was wrong. Corvo _does_ still have a voice, no matter how little he can do with it now, and apparently he also still talks in his sleep – has nightmares, from the sound of it.

And of course he does. Trauma like what Corvo went through doesn’t go away just like that. Geoff might have broken Corvo out of Coldridge, but he can’t break Coldridge out of Corvo that easily.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t try.

Geoff opens the door to the sight of Corvo curled up into himself, a string of unintelligible noises falling from his lips, his tongueless mouth trying to form the words it cannot anymore. He’s kicked off his blanket at some point during the night, and he’s shivering, though Geoff can’t tell whether that’s from the cold or whatever is plaguing his subconscious. It makes for a pitiful, heartwrenching sight, and it feels as though they’re right back where they started – because Corvo is so close and yet so far away, like he’s just on the other side of the bars.

Except this time there are no bars separating them, no eyes or ears following their every move, and Geoff rushes forward without a second thought, crossing the room in the two quick strides. “Corvo!” he calls loudly. “Corvo, wake up!”

Corvo winces at the sound of his voice, but he does not wake up, his mutterings only coming quicker, the tone of them more pleading. His lips draw together to form an ‘f’ sound, and Geoff realises Corvo is trying to say _his name_ , is calling out to him just like he did in Coldridge, before Geoff’s own callousness put a stop to that. And now, Geoff will not just stand idly by.

“Corvo,” he says again, placing a firm hand on Corvo’s shoulder, “Corvo, you need to –”

But that’s all he gets out before he, too, cannot speak anymore, his airway blocked by the fingers wrapped mercilessly tight around his throat, squeezing _hard_ , and Geoff can’t _breathe_ , can’t speak, can’t do anything except claw uselessly at the hands choking the life out of him, trying without result to pry the fingers loose. It isn’t long before he begins to feel lightheaded, and Void, _Void_ , he’s going to die here, he’s going to die, Corvo is going to _kill him_ –

And just as soon as it came, the pressure falls away, and Geoff falls with it, crashing hard to the floor as he gasps for air, his throat raw and painful, his entire body aching, his head swimming. He can breathe, he can _breathe_ , but it feels as though his airway is still being squeezed closed, as though the hands are still wrapped around his neck. He hardly knows up from down, and he flinches violently when someone touches his arm. Touch is bad, touch is pain, touch is…

 _Oh_.

Geoff lifts his head to see Corvo sitting on his knees just an arm’s length away, staring at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. As soon as Geoff catches his gaze, Corvo brings up a shaking hand, curls it into a fist, and rubs it in a small circle on his chest, right over his heart. It’s one of the signs they went over yesterday. It means ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’.

He keeps making circles, again and again and again, and Geoff can’t find his voice, can’t remember any sign that might help him tell Corvo it’s alright (even if it’s not, it’s not Voiddamned alright, he’s lying to himself). So instead, he reaches over, his own hands shaking as badly as Corvo’s, and places his palm over Corvo’s fist, carefully tugging it away from his chest. Corvo unclenches his hand immediately, and it’s almost laughable to think that these trembling fingers were so steady around his throat only minutes ago.

Corvo is shaking his head, still with those sorrowful eyes, and Geoff just wants to let him know it’s okay, he didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t _mean to_ –

He squeezes Corvo’s hand before lifting it to his lips, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of it. “It’s alright,” he manages to rasp, his voice raw and hoarse. “I’m fine.”

Corvo sucks in a breath through his teeth, and though he still very much looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to condemn himself, like he wants to burst into tears, he doesn’t. He gets to his feet, not letting go of Geoff’s hand, and when he is upright, he offers his other hand to Geoff too, to help him up. Geoff takes it, lets Corvo guide him up. Corvo sets him down again on his bed with an almost maddening care, and then he holds up his hands, palms facing forward. It’s not a sign they learned from the book, but it’s easy enough to understand the meaning. _Wait_.

Geoff nods, wincing when the movement sends a shock of pain through his head, and Corvo rushes from the room, leaving Geoff to try and gather his scattered thoughts. His head feels like a boulder, and Geoff rests it in his hands, his elbows leaning on his knees. Breathing is still a chore, and he focuses on that, on taking deep, even breaths, just in and out, in and out, in and out. It helps calm his racing heart, helps him ground himself, helps him realise he’s still _alive_.

He keeps breathing until Corvo returns with a vial of elixir from Geoff’s surplus, which he all but pushes into Geoff’s hands. Geoff doesn’t have the mind to protest, even if he would usually prefer not to squander these remedies; this would mark two elixirs in as many days. But his throat _burns_ , and he doesn’t think he could ever say ‘no’ to that harrowed look in Corvo’s eyes, so Geoff uncaps the elixir and drinks it down, no matter how painful the act of swallowing is.

It is a balm to his throat, the medication foul-tasting but fast-acting, and Geoff offers Corvo a weak smile. “Thank you.”

His voice comes out a bit clearer this time, and Corvo smiles back at him, the tilt of his lips filled with relief and regret alike. Once again, he lifts a fist to his chest and rubs small circles – and this time, Geoff mirrors him, signs back the apology, because he should have known better than to touch Corvo while he was asleep. It stops Corvo short, his hand stilling over his heart, and Geoff uncurls his own fist, holding his hand out to Corvo instead, palm up. A question.

Corvo looks down at the proffered hand for a spell, an unreadable expression on his face – and then he sinks to his knees in front of Geoff, taking his hand in both of his. This time Corvo is the one to imitate Geoff, bringing Geoff’s hand up to his lips and kissing it almost reverently.

They stay like that for what feels like a long time, Geoff sitting on the edge of the bed, Corvo kneeling before him with Geoff’s hand tightly clasped between his own, his forehead resting against their intertwined hands.

It’s peaceful, in a way.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I will do weekly updates!  
> 2020: Hahaha no.
> 
> Have a late chapter guys :')

Geoff wakes the next morning with his hand still in Corvo’s.

He doesn’t remember lying down, doesn’t remember falling asleep, but here he is, in Corvo’s bed, a blanket draped over his form. Corvo, too, fell asleep, still sitting on the floor, his form sagged unceremoniously against the bed, head resting on the edge of the mattress. It can’t be a very comfortable position, but at least he’s resting, his breathing deep and even, no mutterings spoken from his harried subconscious. Exhaustion must have finally caught up with him.

Geoff lets his hand slip out of Corvo’s and sits upright, gingerly bringing his fingers up to touch the still tender skin of his throat. It doesn’t feel as painful as it did yesterday, the elixir having done its work well overnight, and Geoff hums softly, the sound of it clear if not still a bit raw. His voice should hold up today, at the very least, when he addresses his new squad.

Geoff gets out of bed as carefully as he can, hoping he won’t wake Corvo in the process, because he needs his rest. But months in Coldridge have made Corvo an exceptionally light sleeper, and the movement of Geoff’s weight leaving the mattress has him awake and alert in an instant.

“Morning,” Geoff says, his tone kept deliberately light. “Breakfast?”

Corvo stares up at him, his gaze almost immediately dropping down to Geoff’s neck. Once again, he brings a closed fist to his chest to sign “ _sorry_ ”, and Geoff clicks his tongue.

“Don’t,” he says briskly. “It was my fault as much as yours. I should have known better than to try and pull you out of a nightmare.”

Corvo furrows his brow, frustrated, and he grabs his notebook from the nightstand, writing, _You were trying to help_.

“And the road to the Void is paved with good intentions,” Geoff counters sardonically. “Let’s just forget about last night. It’s a new day.”

Something shifts in Corvo’s eyes, something Geoff can’t quite place, something dejected, almost – but it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Corvo just nods.

He attempts to get to his feet, but the long night of sleeping with his legs curled underneath him have taken their toll, and he very nearly crashes right back down to the floor, only just managing to catch himself on the edge of the bed. Geoff is at his side in an instant, hand poised to touch Corvo’s shoulder – but he hesitates. Because he laid a hand on Corvo’s shoulder last night, too, and…

Corvo senses his trepidation, his hands curling into fists around the bedsheet, and he pushes himself up swiftly, as though forcing his legs to comply. He sways only briefly before steadying himself, and he gives Geoff a smile that does not reach his eyes before he steps away, out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen.

Geoff can only follow, even though it feels like something just went very wrong, something he can’t put his finger on. But then he, too, would be upset if he’d tried to kill someone in a nightmare-induced delirium, so he doesn’t say a word, just trails after Corvo into the kitchen.

He doesn’t really have the time to make a proper breakfast, because he slept too long, and he has to make sure he makes it to the Old Waterfront on time today for his first shift as captain of a new squad. So Geoff merely toasts some bread, humming softly as he works, to remind himself – and Corvo, too – that his throat is fine, that yesterday’s debacle had no permanent effect on him.

It works, to some extent; Corvo seems less tense when Geoff sets a plate down in front of him, though there is still a contemplative furrow to his brow as he stares down at his notebook, tapping the blunt end of his pencil softly against an empty page. Geoff doesn’t pay it much mind, just butters his toast and waits for Corvo to write without prompting.

When he finally does, a good few minutes later, the message is much shorter than Geoff would have expected. _Would you keep an eye out for Emily, when you’re out in the city?_

Emily. _Of course_.

Geoff feels ashamed to admit he’s barely spared the Empress’ daughter – or rather, the Empress, now – a second thought these past few months, with everything that happened at Coldridge. Corvo cares greatly for her, he knows that much; even when returning to Dunwall after their expedition, carrying grave news for the Empress, he stopped to play hide-and-seek with Emily. Void, she might even be his daughter, like the rumours say. Geoff never did gather the courage to ask during their time together at sea.

“I will,” he promises, because he owes Corvo that much. “I’ll do whatever I can, Corvo.”

He’s not sure how much he can find out; Geoff is but a captain of the Watch, and he will have to work harder than most on this new assignment to make up for the fact that he won’t be able to ‘find’ Corvo as General Tobias wants him to. But he can keep his eyes and ears open, at the very least – and maybe he can do more, if he has some additional information. “Corvo, what happened, that day? Who took Emily away from the Tower? It might help me look for her.”

Geoff had been heading home, the day of the Empress’ murder. The Spymaster had dismissed him, citing their long journey as a reason to give Geoff some time off. It seemed so reasonable, in that moment. It _had_ been a long journey, after all, and Geoff wasn’t nearly important enough to meet with the Empress face-to-face. He’d almost made it off the Tower’s grounds when the alarm sounded, and by the time he made it back, sprinting as quickly as possible, they’d already arrested Corvo, were dragging him across the grounds to Coldridge. Corvo had been covered in blood, his eyes blank, empty, _dead_ , and Geoff… Geoff did _nothing_ to stop it. Because he had been a coward, and a fool.

And he will always curse himself for his inertia in that moment. But he will not stand idly by ever again.

Corvo flinches at the question, but he nods, however brusquely. He turns back to his notebook, his writing choppy and hesitant, as if the mere action of penning these words down is hurting him. But he does write.

_Please believe me_ , the first sentence reads, curiously, and Geoff frowns as he reads what is honestly the most baffling tale anyone has ever spun for him. _Burrows hired the Knife of Dunwall and the Whalers. Everything people say about them is true. They have some sort of otherworldly powers. They could teleport, and use something akin to telekinesis. One of them suspended me in mid-air while another took Emily, and the Knife stabbed Jessamine._ The word ‘stabbed’ has been pressed into the paper so hard that it tore through the page. _They vanished into thin air with Emily._

He wrote something else after that, but it’s been crossed out, and Geoff doesn’t try to decipher it. The information he has been given is more than enough to make his head spin.

And if it were someone else, he would have had doubts. He would have wondered if this man didn’t go mad with grief, if he didn’t make up this story in his mind while incarcerated, if he didn’t commit the deed himself and attempted to come to peace with it by pretending it was someone else. But this isn’t anyone else. This is Corvo Attano, the best man he knows, and if he says this is what happened, then this is what happened.

“Alright,” he says simply. He slides the notebook back to Corvo and picks up his toast. “I will keep an eye out for news of the Knife of Dunwall too, then. He might have information on Emily’s whereabouts.”

The look in Corvo’s eyes is nothing short of incredulous, but then he finally offers a smile that seems genuine, for the first time that day, and he brings up his hands to sign “ _thank you_ ”. It is gratitude for more than just agreeing to look for Emily, Geoff knows.

He returns Corvo’s smile. “Promise me one thing, though,” he makes his own request in turn. “Don’t go looking for her yourself. Don’t go out on the streets. Don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger.” _Because I can’t bear to lose you_ , he does not say, though he cannot stop the thought. Corvo has come to mean too much to him, and the thought of him dead – or worse, dragged back to Coldridge, where Geoff can’t follow him anymore – is unbearable.

Corvo sets his jaw, clearly not having expected that, but he does agree with a curt nod. It is a blatant display of trust, all but putting the faith of the Empress’ daughter in Geoff’s hands, and he appreciates that more than he could say.

Geoff will do whatever he can to bring Emily Kaldwin back to him.

* * *

He doesn’t learn anything about Emily’s whereabouts that day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

A week passes, then two, then three. The markings on Geoff’s throat fade away, as do most of the bruises Corvo sustained in Coldridge; Geoff also removes the stitches from the wound in Corvo’s side near the end of the second week, and the injury thankfully seems to be healing well. They are mending, slowly but surely.

Geoff’s new assignment is both a blessing and a curse. Being back out in the field is invigorating, much more pleasant than being stuck in a guard post in Coldridge all night, but he works long hours, and is quite often forced to stay at the guard barracks for the night, when his river patrol takes him to the other side of the city. It means Corvo is stuck at the house by himself most of the time, unable to leave, unable to do anything at all, and Geoff can tell it’s taking its toll on him. Corvo has never been one to sit still and let others do the heavy lifting.

They don’t really have much of a choice, though. Corvo cannot go outside, not with his wanted poster plastered on every available surface in Dunwall, and Geoff cannot slack off on his job. He needs General Tobias to believe he’s trying to catch the Empress’ murderer, and for that he needs to crack down on the many smugglers that are trying to turn a profit from the blockade currently sequestering Gristol from the other Isles. It’s overall good work, too; keeping the plague contained to just the one Isle could save a whole lot of lives in the long run.

Still, Geoff wishes he could do more to help Corvo than just harbouring him and leading the wild goose chase for his capture. Corvo is still a wanted man, is still trapped in the gilded cage that is Geoff’s home, still has those wretched nightmares that Geoff doesn’t dare try to shake him out of again, and it eats at him. Corvo deserves so much better than what Geoff is able to give.

Corvo doesn’t begrudge him anything, though. He always looks at Geoff with more fondness than he deserves, and Geoff basks in it despite himself. It’s wonderful to come home to someone, no matter how forced the arrangements are. Before the plague, the Curnow family’s home was never quiet, but with Callista missing and the rest of his family long gone, the life has leached out of the house, leaving it a cold, empty husk. Corvo’s presence changed that. He is the only reason Geoff isn’t staying at the barracks as often as he can.

He comes home late that night, long after dinnertime; his squad finally uncovered the cache of a particularly slippery band of smugglers, their first truly big score, and cataloguing all the contraband and setting up surveillance of the area had taken hours. It’s honestly not the contraband Geoff is concerned about – he understands very well that the people of Dunwall are missing their imported goods. Void, he himself would kill for an affordable bottle of brandy from Cullero. But the smugglers, who travel from this plague-infested city to the other Isles, who could spread the disease far and wide because of their ignorance, they need to be contained. He’d stayed on the stakeout personally until another captain came to relieve him, and Geoff is bone-tired by the time he drags his feet across his doorstep.

Corvo is sitting by a lit candle in the living room, reading the book on signs again. His hand is in the middle of a new motion that Geoff doesn’t recognise, and he watches Corvo’s fingers move through the air, trying not to think too hard about taking that hand in his own and pressing his lips to it again.

But then Corvo looks up and smiles at him in that insufferably fond way, and Geoff isn’t thinking about kissing his _hands_ any longer.

He has gotten rather good at suppressing those thoughts, however, and he just returns Corvo’s smile with a tired one of his own. “Studying so late?” Geoff hums as he crosses the room. “If only my men were half as diligent.”

Corvo snorts softly, and he picks up his notebook to write out his reply. _Guardsmen are only as diligent as their commanding officer._

“Oh, then they’re doomed,” Geoff says flippantly, earning him one of those lopsided grins that have no business being that Voiddamned attractive. He sits down next to Corvo, opting to look down at the book instead. “What sign are we learning?”

Corvo is quite a bit ahead of him with signs by now, but Geoff makes an effort to catch up on his days off, and he sits and reads with Corvo whenever he can. Corvo is always more than happy to show him what he taught himself from the book, and they have a handful of signs they can rely on for the basics by now. But there is still a long way to go, doubly so without anyone to teach them but themselves.

Geoff is more than willing to put in the work, though. It’s his fault Corvo can’t speak anymore, his fault for not getting him out of that hellhole sooner, so the least he can do is give Corvo the means to communicate in a different way.

But it’s been a long day, and focus is hard to come by tonight. Geoff doesn’t let it show, though; he merely brews a strong pot of coffee when the urge to yawn begins to get overwhelming and then gets back to it. They’re onto signs for weather now – or at least, Corvo is. Geoff will still need time to master some of the signs they studied before, but he won’t pass up the opportunity to sit and study together with Corvo, even if the only sign he’ll ever need to describe the weather in a city like Dunwall is ‘ _rain_ ’.

They do learn ‘ _rain_ ’, and also ‘ _sunny_ ’, and ‘ _snow_ ’, and ‘ _cold_ ’, and ‘ _hot_ ’. Geoff rather doubts he’ll remember any of them too well in the morning, but it’s nice to sit here with his leg pressed flush against Corvo’s, their heads close together to read the book in the dim candlelight. They go through the motions together, again and again and again, and Geoff –

Wakes up.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but here he is, still on the sofa, still –

Still pressed against Corvo’s form, Geoff’s head resting comfortably on his shoulder. Corvo is breathing slowly enough for Geoff to surmise that he, too, fell asleep like this, with his cheek pressed against the crown of Geoff’s head. And when Geoff tries to shift, he realises Corvo’s arm is firmly encircled around his waist – a realisation he has only because his movement has Corvo tightening that arm in his sleep, keeping Geoff exactly where he is.

Exactly where he wants to be.

He hardly dares to breathe, so unwilling is he to burst this bubble of peace they’ve inexplicably found themselves in. For once, Corvo’s subconscious doesn’t seem to be plagued by nightmares as he sleeps, his whole body relaxed and warm against Geoff’s own. And looking at the low light beginning to stream through the windows, Geoff has some time yet before he has to go and get ready for his shift. There is no reason for him to move, or so he tells himself, because he has not felt this perfectly safe in years, if ever. Right here, right now, there is nothing that could possibly harm him.

But it cannot last, because this is a stolen moment, something he does not even deserve, and all too soon the sun has properly risen, and Geoff knows he needs to go if he wants to start his shift on time.

Still, he lingers. Because he will not ever get to have this again, he just knows it, and he will savour every ill-gotten second of this feeling.

Time expires too quickly, and Geoff sighs, carefully nudging at Corvo with his elbow, hoping the jostle will not make Corvo feel threatened as the hand on his shoulder did. He decidedly does not need a repeat of that incident.

He shouldn’t have worried; Corvo just groans at the contact, pulls Geoff even closer and turns his head to bury his nose in his hair, and Geoff can’t breathe for a wholly different reason this time around.

“Corvo,” he says, hesitantly, and the sound of his voice has Corvo’s entire form stiffen for a second before the warmth of his body falls away completely.

Corvo looks at him as though he’s never seen him before, blinking sleep from his eyes, and then he brings a hand up to his chest, fist closed, and –

“Don’t even think about it,” Geoff warns. He meant to sound stern, but it just comes out strangled. “I – Void, I need to get to my post.”

He stands, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his captain’s coat. There’s no time to change, no time to do much except splash some cold water in his face, really, and Geoff curses himself for his own folly. He should never have indulged as long as he did.

Yet despite that, he allows himself one more indulgence – because Corvo is looking so very lost in that moment, and Geoff cannot help but lean down and kiss the top of his head, an act of reassurance as much as a fulfilment of his own longing, in this small way he allows himself.

“I might not be back tonight. Long shift,” he says, though his mind is decidedly not on his shift right now. “Don’t wait up for me.”

It’s a much too mundane thing to say, a much too _domestic_ thing to say, and Geoff turns around and stalks out of the room without another word, unwilling to embarrass himself in front of the object of his misguided affection this early in the Voiddamned morning.

He’s in much too deep.


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still slowly but steadily trudging along! Weekly updates are all but out the window now so I'll be adopting an asap schedule instead :')

Four days after that disastrous morning, the grapevine brings Geoff more accurate news than he could have hoped for.

The Abbey conducted a raid on the old Chamber of Commerce in the Flooded District, they say. It failed spectacularly – because that’s where the infamous Knife of Dunwall has his lair, and the Overseers didn’t stand a chance against him and his heretical magic, fuelled in power by the misery of the plague. Because surely the Outsider must be responsible for Dunwall’s misfortune, surely it must be the Void’s influence that has brought death to their doorstep. Even the most loyal Everyman is at risk of corruption these days, haven’t you heard, don’t carry bone on your person, do you _want_ me to turn you in to the Abbey –

Geoff stops listening after that – but he doesn’t stop thinking.

If the information is accurate, if the Knife of Dunwall is still holed up in the Chamber of Commerce – and why wouldn’t he be, now that he’s proven even the Abbey doesn’t have the power to take him down? – then Geoff has a solid lead; his first and only lead as to the location of Emily Kaldwin. And he’ll damn well see where it takes him.

Perhaps it’s rash, and reckless, and ill-advised, but Geoff promised himself, promised _Corvo_ , that he would do everything in his power to find Emily. Because he may still be a fool, but he has shed his cowardice.

Corvo won’t even miss him, at least not tonight; he’ll just assume Geoff had to work overtime and is staying at the guards’ barracks for the night. If the Knife decides to kill Geoff on the spot, well, Corvo will still be able to stay at the house, and there should be enough canned food to last him a good while. He’ll be alright without Geoff, in the long run. But he won’t be alright without Emily.

So at the end of the day, Geoff commandeers one of the Watch’s motorised dinghies, and sets off for the Flooded District.

It’s impossible to think that this place was the thriving Financial District before the plague hit. There is nothing left of the grandeur it once displayed, every building dilapidated if not crumbled to dust, floodwater lapping at the stonework, river krusts growing rampantly through the cracks in the cobblestones. It is the epicentre of everything wrong with Dunwall, and it seems only fitting that the most notorious assassin of their time, the man who murdered the Empress, hides in the heart of its desolation.

The closer he gets to the old Chamber of Commerce, the louder Geoff’s heart seems to pound in his ears. This is the most foolhardy thing he’s ever done, and that includes breaking the most wanted criminal of the Isles out of prison. But he _has_ to do this. For Corvo, for the young Empress, for the Empire – and for himself. Because he cannot just stand idly by when he has the opportunity to change things for the better, when the recovery of Emily Kaldwin could help them depose Hiram Burrows, clear Corvo’s name, start fixing this broken husk of an Empire. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t _try_.

It isn’t long before he can feel eyes on him, before the shadows on the rooftops begin to move in ways that are just shy of natural. Geoff keeps his eye on the horizon, keeps his stance relaxed, hands locked behind his back. If he keeps his boat going straight, he’ll end up in the part of the Flooded District that’s been marked off to contain those who’ve contracted the plague. But Geoff doesn’t go straight. He steers his dinghy sharply to the right, into an inlet created by the floodwater that will carry him towards Central Rudshore, and –

And there’s a Whaler on the boat with him, appearing as if from nowhere, shadows clinging to his form as though the Void is still putting him together. Outsider’s eyes, if Corvo hadn’t warned him of the Whalers’ powers, he would’ve had a Voiddamned heart attack. As it is, Geoff cannot stop the flinch at the sudden presence, but he holds his parade rest, even if his left hand is clenching his wrist so hard it might bruise. This is it. Sink or swim.

The Whaler cocks his head, more surprised by Geoff’s lack of panic than Geoff was by his sudden appearance. “Watch Captain,” he says after a beat, his voice oddly muffled and amplified by his mask at the same time. “I believe you have taken a wrong turn. These are not waters you wish to find yourself in.”

The fact that the Whaler has not yet dragged a blade across his throat is encouraging. “On the contrary,” Geoff says, taking pride in the fact that his voice is perfectly level. “I’ve found exactly what I was looking for.”

Immediately, the Whaler’s hand flies to the hilt of his blade – though he keeps it sheathed, for now. “Is that so? And what is it you were looking for, Captain?”

“The Whalers,” Geoff says simply, and honestly. “I have need of information.”

The Whaler snorts. “We don’t work with the Watch.”

“I’m not here as an officer of the Watch,” he counters, because he’s not – even if he is wearing his captain’s uniform, steering a dinghy with the Watch’ logo painted clearly on the hull. “I just need to find someone. I can pay you.”

He wouldn’t even know how much the Whalers charge for retrieving a person – least of all a person like Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I. But he does have coin, some on him, some at home, more than enough coming in every month. Despicable as it may be, he could – and he would, he _will_ – pay the assassins, if they can tell him what he needs to know.

Geoff cannot see the Whaler’s expression behind the mask, but he can tell he’s being evaluated, measured. He keeps his posture as relaxed as he can, his face pointedly neutral. And then the Whaler sighs. “You will have to take your business up with Master Daud.”

The Knife himself. Geoff would be lying if he said the prospect of meeting Daud didn’t unnerve him – but then he didn’t come all this way only to turn back now. “Lead the way.”

“First, disarm yourself,” the Whaler orders.

Under different circumstances, he would blanch at the thought of parting with his weapons. But it’s not as if he has any chance of leaving this place alive if things go south anyway; he might be able to take a Whaler or two down with him, but he’s right in the belly of the beast. Keeping his armaments won’t do him any good.

Geoff strips off his sword belt, leaving his blade and combat knife sheathed and his pistol holstered in it as he kneels to put it down, carefully, on the floor of the boat. He stays kneeling and reaches into his boot to withdraw another knife – a trick one of his uncles hammered into him. Always keep a second knife, for insurance.

But there is no insurance now, and the best he can hope for is that the unearthing of a hidden weapon will show the Whaler that he’s following instructions to the letter.

When he straightens again, the Whaler nods, and, clearly broadcasting his movements, takes a hold of Geoff’s upper arm. “Keep your elbows tucked in,” is all the warning Geoff gets before the Whaler clenches his left hand into a fist, and they’re _gone_.

It’s the strangest sensation he has ever been subjected to. It feels like being disintegrated, scattered into a million tiny pieces, then feeling all those little parts of himself snap together again to form him anew – only much, much higher up now, his dinghy only just visible in the waters below.

It happens three more times in quick succession, and then –

Then he’s standing before the Knife of Dunwall himself.

The Knife of Dunwall and a dozen more Whalers, that is, and all of their eyes are immediately on the unannounced, unwanted presence in their midst. At least three Whalers reach for their blades at the sight of Geoff’s Watch captain’s coat, and he is suddenly, oddly grateful that his guide demanded he disarm himself back at the boat. He is not sure he could have suppressed his instinct to go for his sword himself, and he suspects he would have been dead before he could blink in that case.

As it is, Geoff clutches his hands behind his back, adapting a parade rest that looks much more secure than he feels.

The Whaler who brought him up to Daud’s office lets go of Geoff’s arm and salutes his leader. “Master Daud,” he says, “the Watch captain says he has business to discuss. He wants us to locate someone.”

“Is that so?” the Knife asks, cocking an amused eyebrow at Geoff, at his too-straight posture and severe expression. “I didn’t realise you’d grown that desperate to find your niece, Captain Curnow.”

Geoff cannot stop the flinch, cannot stop the surge of panic that claws its way up his throat. The fact that Daud knows who he is, that he knows about _Callista_ – Void, he didn’t expect he’d be important enough for someone like the Knife of Dunwall to know.

But then Daud clearly doesn’t know everything, and Geoff hums a quiet laugh. He’s in enemy territory, outnumbered and outsourced, but he has yet to show his entire hand, and that gives a semblance of control. “Callista can find her way back, if that’s what she wants,” he says, because it’s true. His niece is clever, cunning and capable and resourceful, and if she thought she would be safer at the Curnow residence than wherever she’s holing up now, she’d have come home by now. “I have a different quarry.”

The amusement fades from Daud’s expression, replaced by an inquisitive look that makes Geoff feel like an insect placed underneath a microscope. “Who is it you’re looking for, then?”

Geoff squares his shoulders. “Emily Kaldwin.”

He’s barely uttered the name before a deathly quiet descends on the room – quiet but for the scraping of steel on leather as half a dozen Whalers draw their blades. Had Daud not held up a hand, Geoff suspects he would have been run clean through, would have choked on the last syllable of the Empress’ name because there would have been a sword stuck between his ribs.

There is something hard in Daud’s expression. “You want us to locate the Empress?”

Geoff matches his gaze with an equally unyielding stare of his own. “Locate? No. You’d only have to tell me what you did with her, after you took her away from the gazebo that day.”

At least one more Whaler draws their blade, but Geoff keeps his eyes on Daud, on the bastard who murdered Jessamine Kaldwin and made a good, kind, honest, innocent man take the fall for his crime. If there is even a shred of decency left in him, he won’t deny it.

He doesn’t. Not outright, at least. “What makes you think we were the ones who took her?”

“You left a witness.”

“A witn-?” Daud begins, puzzled, but the question in his eyes quickly makes way for sharp understanding. “Attano. You’re here on behalf of Attano.”

“He’s a wanted man. I am not,” Geoff neither confirms nor denies the statement, though the implication is clear.

Daud holds his gaze for a long time, searching for… something. Insincerity, perhaps, or dishonesty. But he won’t find either.

He breaks eye contact to look down at something on his desk, and he sighs. “Let’s make a deal,” Daud says. “I tell you by whom the Empress is being held, and you tell me how to break someone out of Coldridge.”

There was a time, not too long ago, when he would have balked at the mere idea of it. When the righteous, lawful man he used to be would have denied the assassin regardless of circumstances, regardless of consequences. But that man died in Coldridge Prison, as everything good that wanders those halls dies eventually. The one thing that left that place intact, somehow, is Corvo’s spirit, and Geoff will do whatever it takes to keep that. Even if it means striking a deal with the Knife of Dunwall himself.

“They don’t check the laundry trolleys,” Geoff says, his phrasing careful but his tone blunt. “Guards on duty change so often no one knows just who is walking around in the uniform of a lower guard. And scheduling a Dead Eel and a Hatter for yard time simultaneously is ill-advised.”

Daud hums, sounding much too pleased for Geoff’s liking, and he scribbles something down on one of the papers strewn about his desk. “Facilitating a jailbreak isn’t a very lawful practise.”

It sounds far too much like a threat, and Geoff can’t help the way his jaw tightens. “Neither is condemning an innocent man to torture,” he bites out, and he takes a shred of vindictive pleasure in the way Daud’s eyes flash with what is unmistakably guilt. So the assassin does have a conscience, small and shrivelled as it may be. “You have your information. Now I’d like mine.”

One of the Whalers scoffs, but Daud doesn’t; he just nods curtly. “We were instructed to leave the Empress with Custis and Morgan Pendleton,” he provides the promised intel more readily than Geoff would have expected. “Unless she’s been moved, they should still have custody of her.”

 _Damn_. Geoff can’t keep the displeasure off his face at the news; not only are the Pendletons trusted allies of Hiram Burrows, using their sizeable voting bloc to keep him in power, they’re also just generally abhorrent people. He doesn’t even want to think about the things Emily must have endured these past few months in their ‘care’ – and that’s not even to mention the fact that breaking into a manor like the Pendletons’ and escaping with a child will be nearly impossible altogether.

Daud seems to follow his train of thought, and he clicks his tongue. “The Pendletons haven’t been seen at their estate in some time now,” he says. There is something measured about his words Geoff doesn’t understand – at least not until Daud continues. “They’re said to have taken up semi-permanent residence in the Golden Cat.”

“The Gol-” Geoff begins, then stops himself, snapping his jaw shut with an audible clack. The Golden Cat. _The Golden Cat_. They’re keeping the Empress of the Isles… in a _brothel_?

It’s despicable, and infuriating, and _wrong_ , but… it’s also not a place anyone would think to look for Emily Kaldwin, and that might work in Geoff’s favour. The Golden Cat is a public place, and he knows for a fact that other officers – especially those with a background in nobility – frequent the bathhouse. One more captain wanting to scratch an itch won’t stand out, even if it will make him feel deplorable.

The information is more than Geoff expected – _if_ it’s true, that is. But something tells him Daud isn’t lying. He’s far from a good person, but he doesn’t strike Geoff as a liar. “Thank you.”

“And you, Curnow,” Daud returns. He looks very much like he wants to say something else, but thinks the better of it, shaking his head. “Rulfio, put him back where you found him.”

The Whaler who’d intercepted Geoff snaps into a salute. “Yes, Master Daud.”

And just as quickly as they’d travelled before, Geoff is back in his dinghy, his weapons at his feet. The Whaler is gone again immediately, and Geoff lets out a long breath before he replaces his weaponry and turns the boat around.

Void, he could use a stiff drink right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please look at [this perfectly accurate recreation](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/421004436786380800/780531691575836682/unknown.png) of Geoff's meeting with the Whalers, as created by [Hekateras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekateras/pseuds/Hekateras) <3


	10. X

By the time Geoff docks the dinghy back where it belongs, darkness has settled over Dunwall, and the streets are quiet. Under different circumstances, he would have called it a night at this time, would have gone to the nearest guard barracks and slept there instead of making the long trek back to the Legal District. But he has to go home tonight, has to tell Corvo about what he has learned. He can’t leave that until after his next shift.

So Geoff takes a carriage home, because the ferry doesn’t travel this late, and he arrives at his house just shy of midnight. He has to practically drag himself through the door, his shift and the nerve-racking meeting with Daud having left him utterly exhausted. He half-hopes Corvo is already asleep so he can just go to bed himself and talk to Corvo in the morning – but then he also wants to tell Corvo this news as quickly as possible. To let Corvo know he’s working on it, that he’s not made his promise in vain, that Corvo can trust him, fully and unconditionally.

And he’ll get that chance. Because Corvo is still awake, or something akin to it, reading one of Geoff’s grandfather’s old books, the text written in Serkonan, by the stub of a candle in the corner of the living room. There is still a knife on the coffee table, but Corvo doesn’t try to reach for it when he notices Geoff step into the room this time, instead just putting the book down and smiling that kind smile of his. Perhaps the past few weeks of peace have tempered his wariness – or perhaps he’s simply grown to recognise Geoff by presence alone, and that’s a much too comforting thought to indulge.

“I have news,” Geoff says by way of greeting, too tired and too anxious to beat around the bush. “I know where they’re keeping Emily.”

Corvo is on his feet immediately, hands raised to sign the obvious question. “ _Where?_ ”

“The Golden Cat,” Geoff says.

Corvo stares at him, his hands slowly lowering, fingers curling into fists, and his expression darkens, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. It’s not difficult to understand why people were intimidated by him, back when he was Royal Protector. But then Geoff knows him better than that, knows he is a good man with a soft heart, and he doesn’t hesitate to lay a comforting hand on Corvo’s shoulder.

“I know, it’s… I know,” he murmurs. “But it’ll be easy enough to get inside, at least – I can go tomorrow night, after my shift, to do reconnaissance if nothing else. You’ll have her back, Corvo. I promise.”

It’s an empty promise, a word he can’t be sure he’ll be able to keep. And Corvo must know it, must realise that everything could go south at the drop of a hat, must understand that Geoff’s proclamation means preciously little in the grand scheme of things. But the words loosen some of the tension in his shoulders, muscles relaxing underneath Geoff’s fingers, and he breathes deeply, his jaw still set but his eyes calmer, more focused.

Corvo grasps Geoff’s hand and guides it off his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go and turning to grab his notebook so he can write, _How did you learn of this?_

The question reminds Geoff just how long his day has been, how tired he is, and he sighs, moving past Corvo so he can sink down onto the couch. Corvo follows suit, taking the other corner of the couch and regarding Geoff with a slight raise to his eyebrows, a silent prompt.

“I went to the Flooded District,” Geoff begins, tone brisk. No use skirting around the topic when it’s already done. “The Overseers conducted a raid – a failed one – a few days ago; they thought the Knife of Dunwall was hiding out in the old Commerce building. I had to see for myself if they were right. They were.”

Immediately, Corvo sharply drags his index finger across his palm, and the sign would be easy to interpret even if Geoff hadn’t learned its meaning. “ _What?!_ ”

Geoff shrugs, not showing any of the trepidation he’d felt steering his boat through those waters, into the territory of the most notorious assassin of their generation. “I told you I’d keep a lookout for information about the Knife,” he reminds Corvo. “So I went. Spoke with him. Made a deal.”

The calm has vanished from Corvo’s eyes, and he puts pencil to paper again, writing furiously. _What were you thinking? You could have gotten hurt. You could have gotten the plague. You could have died!_

“Yes,” Geoff says, because Corvo is far from wrong, “but I didn’t.”

Corvo’s expression is one of righteous indignation, and Geoff sighs, stopping him before he can begin writing again. “I know it was dangerous.” And stupid, he doesn’t say, but then he’s pretty sure Corvo understands that notion. “But I made you a promise. I couldn’t just do _nothing_.”

Corvo frowns. _I don’t want you to put your own life at risk for me, or for her, or for anyone_ , he writes. And then, after a brief hesitation, he adds something else. Something that steals the breath right from Geoff’s lungs. _I’m not prepared to lose you_.

It’s an echo of his own thoughts, when he asked Corvo not to go looking for Emily himself, and seeing it written out in Corvo’s slanted hand is almost surreal. Not that Corvo means it _like that_ , of course – he is just a good man with a good heart who doesn’t want to see anyone harmed, not even for the sake of the girl who is like a daughter to him.

“I won’t apologise,” Geoff says, stubbornly so. He knows perfectly well that he would make the exact same choice if faced with the decision again – because he may still be a fool, but he refuses to be a coward ever again. “There is a child being held against her will, and I am an officer of the law. I cannot in good conscience sit and do nothing when I have the opportunity to act.”

Corvo’s eyes flash with what is unmistakably annoyance, and anger, and… admiration? He shakes his head with an exasperated huff, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. He poises his pencil once more atop the paper, then pauses, thinking the better of it. Corvo lays the notebook down, and instead leans forward to wrap his arms around Geoff’s shoulders, pulling him into a firm embrace.

The contact is as unexpected as it is welcomed, and Geoff selfishly allows himself to sag against Corvo, if only for a little while. Because he did, despite making light of it, risk his life today, and he may have just earned this kind touch, this comforting warmth, this piece of Corvo, however small.

And if Corvo lets him, Geoff will spend the rest of his life earning his affections.

* * *

The Golden Cat is everything Geoff expected it to be. Which is to say, not much.

For all of its splendour, all of its luxurious décor and silken curtains, it’s still just a brothel, still a place where working girls – and a handful of men, too – are exploited and mistreated just to stay off the streets. Not even the best make-up can fully hide the bruises on the girls’ arms, the angry red scratch marks running down the back of a male courtesan whom Geoff might have given more than a passing glance under different circumstances. It is little more than a dungeon masquerading as a house of pleasure, and Geoff would honestly rather be anywhere than here.

But he has to find Emily Kaldwin, has to get her out of this miserable place, and in order to do that… he has to play along.

The other captains were surprised when Geoff told them he would join them – and no wonder, considering he has never before expressed any desire to see the Golden Cat from the inside. Inchmouth had scoffed at him, but Rivers and Winston just shrugged and waved him along. The time of plague changes people, after all, and Geoff did just spend months serving as a guard in Coldridge. It’s no wonder to them that he would want to blow off some steam.

The very notion has his stomach churning, but if there’s anything he’s learned these past few months, it’s how to lie with a straight face. So Geoff laughs at his fellow captains’ tawdry jests, pretends he’s eyeing the courtesans’ finer assets rather than their poorly covered bruises, and does not let any of the distaste he feels show in his expression. Not even when they’ve checked in, relieved of their coin purses and their sword belts, and a petite, round-faced courtesan latches herself onto his arm as though she belongs there.

“We’ll have the Pearl Room all to ourselves tonight,” she all but purrs into his ear as she leads him away from the front desk, Geoff’s colleagues likewise being led in different directions by their own assigned courtesans. “My name is Misty – if that pleases you, of course, darling – and I’ll take _very_ good care of you.”

Void, what has he gotten himself into? “I… don’t doubt that,” Geoff says, his words clumsy on his tongue.

She giggles as though it is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “And what do I call you, handsome?”

“Captain Curnow,” he says curtly, because – well, that’s generally how he introduces himself these days.

“Hmmm, you’re certainly going to be the Captain tonight,” Misty hums, and despite himself, Geoff can feel his ears _burning_.

“I didn’t mean…” he begins, but thinks the better of it. The last thing he wants is to hear his given name spoken in that sensual drawl of hers. “I’m sorry, I’ve never…”

“Paid for pleasure?” she inquires, and her face softens somewhat when he nods. “It’s quite alright, dear. As I said, I will take good care of you – you’ll never want anyone else again, when we’re done.”

He rather doubts that, all things considered. “Thank you,” he says, attempting a reassured smile – and failing, because his mind is very much occupied with the reason he came here in the first place. “I, uh… could you point me to the bathroom first?”

It’s a poor excuse to grant himself the freedom to look around, but Misty smiles a knowing smile and detaches herself from his arm. “Of course, darling. It’s right down the hall to the left, you can’t miss it. I’ll be waiting for you in the Pearl Room,” she says, gesturing towards a door on the other end of the hall, above which an ostentatious oyster containing a large pearl marks the aptly named Pearl Room. “Don’t take too long, _Captain_.”

And she saunters off in the direction of that room, twirling its key around her finger as she goes, and Geoff lets out a long breath. He will have to find some way to deal with that situation, somehow – but that’s for later. First he has to find out where Emily Kaldwin is being held, and that is a monumental enough task in and of itself.

He sets off down the hall, keeping an eye out for a way into the areas that are off-limits to clients. They probably won’t be keeping Emily anywhere near the guestrooms, won’t want her to be seen and recognised as the Empress herself. The loudspeakers overhanging just about every street in Dunwall still periodically announce a reward for her safe return, and though Geoff knows Burrows will very likely have anyone coming in with the girl killed on the spot, the common populace is not in possession of that knowledge. Anyone would have motive to try and take Emily if they figure out who she is – so they’ll be keeping her carefully out of sight here.

He’s in luck; there’s a door clearly marked ‘ _Employees Only_ ’ just past the bathroom Misty pointed him to, and after a quick look around to make sure there is nobody watching him, Geoff slips inside.

The difference between the hallway he just left and the hallway he finds himself in is so humongous it’s almost jarring. Gone are the thick curtains and lavish decorations, the warm colours and the photographs on the wall. This place is just _grey_ , drab and cold in its simplicity.

It’s also very empty, which Geoff is insurmountably grateful for. This hour strikes the height of business, with the working man just off his dayshift, and that is an advantage he can make good use of. He will have to work fast still, but chances of being caught are much lower this way.

Upstairs, the private living quarters, seems to be the most logical place to hide a person for an extended period of time, so Geoff sets out for the staircase at the end of the hall that winds up the entire edifice. Working his way from the top down will be his best bet.

But he never gets that far. Geoff has barely taken two steps down the hall when he hears hurried, soft footsteps on the staircase, and before he can even think to turn back, or hide, or conjure up a plausible excuse as to his presence here, a girl darts down the stairs and very nearly smacks right into him.

And it is a _girl_ – not a woman. She barely reaches his diaphragm, and she’s dressed nothing like the courtesans the Cat employs, her form hidden by an oversized sweater and threadbare pants rolled up several times at the ankle. Her hair is matted and greasy, and when she raises her head to look at him, he easily spots a nasty bruise blooming on her chin.

But what shakes him most, beyond everything, is her eyes. Because those are _Corvo’s_ eyes staring back at him with fear and anger and distrust, and that erases any trace of doubt he might have had.

“Emily.”

He gasps her name more than he speaks it, caught off-guard by the shock of finding her before even properly beginning his search, but she flinches despite his soft tone, backs away until she inevitably traps herself in the space under the stairs. She looks very much like a rabid wolfhound boxed in by pursuers, her eyes darting left and right to try and find a way around Geoff, gaze sharp and assessing. She’s scared, yes – it’s impossible not to notice how badly she’s shaking – but she’s more determined than she is afraid, looking for a way out even now.

Void, she really is Corvo’s daughter.

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you,” Geoff says, pointlessly. His words won’t soothe her, not after everything that’s happened, but they’re the only thing he has. “My name is Geoff Curnow. I’m a friend of your father – of Corvo. He asked me to find you.”

That gets a response, albeit not the one he’d hoped for. Emily snorts, the sound quiet but utterly disdainful. “Corvo is dead.”

“What?” Geoff asks, his tone sharper than it should be. “Who told you that?”

Emily looks up at him, and she can’t keep her lip from trembling. “Everyone.”

“They lied to you,” he says, nearly tripping over his own words in a bid to make her understand. “Corvo is alive, he’s safe. I can take you to him.”

The look in her eyes is one of hope masked by far too much trepidation. She doesn’t know him, doesn’t trust him, doesn’t trust what he’s saying. And she was probably on the verge of escaping this Voidawful place – heading right for the VIP exit, if he’s correctly surmising where the door near the stairs is supposed to lead. He is little more than an obstacle in her path right now, one she cannot get around. He is bigger than she is, stronger than she is, and she’s likely received abuse from men wearing his exact uniform over the course of the last several months. Of course she doesn’t believe a word he’s telling her.

He has to level the playing field, has to put them on equal ground, so Geoff kneels before Emily and reaches into his boot, pulling from it his hidden dagger, the one weapon they didn’t ask for at the front desk. He keeps it sheathed and flips it in his hand, holding it out to Emily hilt first. “Take it,” he implores, and she does after only a brief hesitation, snatching the weapon from him with incredibly quick fingers. “There. Now you’re armed, and I’m not.”

Emily unsheathes the blade, inspects its sharp edge, and he can see the fear in her eyes subside, though it does not vanish completely. “Is it really true?” she blurts the question, can’t contain herself. “Is Corvo really…?”

“Yes,” Geoff breathes, pouring every ounce of sincerity he has into that one word. “He’s alive. I’ve been hiding him – and I can hide you, too, somewhere safe, if we just –”

“– let Beatrice handle it,” a new voice instantly cuts him off as the door Geoff only just came from swings open behind him. Emily’s hand tightens around the hilt of the dagger, her eyes wide with renewed fear, and Geoff… flounders.

He could stay put, confront whoever is walking through the door, pretend he doesn’t realise this is Emily Kaldwin and that he’s merely looking out for a child kept in a child-unfriendly place – but he doubts he could get away with that. He could also pick up Emily and _bolt_ , but her disappearance coinciding with his own will most certainly make him the prime suspect, and that will just put Emily _and_ Corvo in danger. He needs an alibi, needs to stay here – but Emily can’t.

“Listen,” he orders the girl, his voice a low, urgent hiss. “There is a place not far from here, near Holger Square, called the Captain’s Chair Hotel. The door is locked, but there’s a window stuck open that you’ll be able to squeeze through. Go there. Go there and wait for me while I stall. Alright?”

He waits for her to nod before he straightens and turns around, just in time to see the Madame of the Golden Cat herself close the door and begin to head down the hall – and almost immediately stopping short at the sight of the Watch Captain standing in the middle of the hallway.

“What are you –?” she begins, her voice harsh for but a moment before she remembers herself, and she adapts a saccharinely sweet tone instead. “I’m sorry dear, but this part of the facility is off-limits to clients.”

“Ah,” Geoff says as though that’s news to him, and he sways a little as he takes a step forward. “Forgive me, ma’am, I think I might’ve had one too many.” He forces a hiccup and blinks slowly, the way Evans always does when he’s beginning to get drunk. “I was looking for the bathroom, but I got a little lost.”

If there’s one good thing that’s come out of the Voidawful months he spent on the job in Coldridge, it’s that his acting skills have gotten considerably better. The Madame looks more than a little exasperated, but not in the least suspicious, and she waves him over, turning back to the door she just came from. He can hear the softest of shuffles behind him as soon as her back is turned, and he squashes the urge to look back as he moves towards the Madame, his footfalls purposefully loud on the concrete floors.

“Through here,” the Madame says, holding open the door for him. “The bathroom is right there, dear. I trust you’ll be able to find your way back to your room yourself?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Geoff nods, surmising that asking her to lead him back to the Pearl Room personally would be pushing his luck. “Thank you. I won’t bother you again.”

“Not a bother at all, dear,” she lies through her teeth as she ushers him through the door. “But you don’t want to keep your paramour waiting, do you?”

“Certainly not,” Geoff returns the lie, covering it with a smile. He nods the Madame farewell with a final ‘ma’am’, and he just gets a glimpse of the empty, barren hallway before she closes the door in his face.

Emily made it out.

Now he can only hope she’s taken his instructions to heart.


	11. XI

Misty is sprawled out on the bed when Geoff finally steps inside the Pearl Room.

“There you are, handsome,” she greets him with a coy smile as she sits up, her hair artfully cascading over her shoulder with the clearly practiced movement. “I nearly thought you’d left me all alone in this big, cold bed.”

Would that he could have just left without arousing suspicion. “I’m sorry, Ms. Misty,” is what he says, “but I don’t think this was a good idea.”

Her eyebrows rise, but the pleasant smile remains, practiced and precise. “Oh,” she sighs, making a show of seeming disappointed. “Would you prefer one of the other girls, darling? Someone a bit taller, or thinner?”

“No!” Geoff denies immediately. “It’s not that you’re not – I mean, you’re very comely, I just…” He rubs his hand across his face, trying in vain to hide the blush that’s blossoming on his cheeks despite himself. Void, he is so far out of his depth. “There’s someone I –”

No, no, that’s too much information, that’s too open, too vulnerable – too _true_. He’s just supposed to stall until he’s established a decent alibi; he shouldn’t be saying more than he has to.

“It’s alright,” Misty says, her tone soft in a way that’s impossible to feign. If anything, she looks relieved at the prospect of not having to service him – and who can blame her for that? “Did you come here to try and forget about her?”

Geoff almost wants to laugh at how inaccurate that statement is. He is here only _because_ of his hopeless love, but of course that’s not something he can confess to. “I don’t want to forget,” he answers, and that is a carefully crafted truth. “I should’ve realised that sooner. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Ms. Misty.”

She looks at him with something odd in her eyes, and then she huffs a laugh, her posture sagging, and she utters just a single word. “Irene.”

Geoff’s brow furrows. “What?”

“My name, it’s Irene,” she says as she runs a hand through her hair. Her voice has gotten deeper; she’s foregone the higher pitch fabricated specifically to please clientele, and there’s a hint of a Potterstead accent to her tone. “It’s not very exotic, so Madame Prudence insisted I choose a different one for when I’m on the job. But considering I won’t be ‘on the job’, technically speaking…”

She pats the spot on the bed next to her, the invitation to just sit down and talk clear, and Geoff graces her with a smile that’s almost earnest. “She’s one to talk, with a name like Prudence,” he snorts as he takes the offered seat, a respectable distance away, and Misty – no, Irene – laughs, the sound rich and clear and nothing at all like the exaggerated giggle she’d put on before.

“Well, it’s not as though she’s providing services personally,” Irene shrugs. “Mind, that’s because no one would ever pay her for it, but still.”

Having just met the Madame, Geoff can’t argue with that. “I’m Geoff,” he introduces himself instead. “Geoff Curnow.”

“I know,” she says, surprising him. At his quirked eyebrow, she smiles. “You patrolled around here, about half a year ago. You saved Lucille’s life when she ran afoul of an Overseer. She didn’t shut up about you for a solid month. Apparently you were quite the gentleman.”

He can feel the tips of his ears turn red at the praise, and he can’t quite manage to look Irene in the eye. “I was only doing my job.”

“You must have done it very well, then. And you didn’t even ask for _payment_.”

It takes a spell for the implication behind her words to sink in, and Geoff balks at the mere idea. “Of course not, that’s…!”

“Unethical?” Irene fills in the blank. “Yes. But that rarely stops an officer of the Watch these days. Those who refrain from assault are either exceptionally good men, or they have… different preferences.”

Geoff huffs a laugh, understanding what she’s really asking. “Or both.”

“Or both,” she shrugs, unperturbed. “And you wouldn’t expect a man like that to come in here and ask for a room.”

“A man like that has to keep up appearances,” Geoff says, his words measured. “A man like that might disappear if he doesn’t play his cards right.”

Irene hums softly, her gaze assessing, and then she reaches for a small glass bottle on the nightstand next to her, twirling it idly between her fingers. “Our oils are floral-scented,” she says, seemingly out of nowhere. “The scents are rather pungent, and cling to the skin for a long time, so our clients won’t forget their experience with us too quickly. We use it for a variety of purposes – massage chief amongst them. And you must carry quite a bit of strain in your hands alone, Captain.”

Her offer could not be more obvious, and Geoff graces her with a grateful smile. This will ensure his alibi, make the other captains and anyone else coming into contact with him believe he’s been very much occupied this past hour. And how can he possibly have aided in the escape of Emily Kaldwin if he was clearly otherwise engaged?

“Please,” he says, letting Irene take one of his hands. “And thank you, for this.”

“Well, we have to make sure the upstanding defenders of our great city won’t get sore joints from holding their weapons, don’t we?” she drawls as she drips a fair amount of oil onto his palm. She was right; the oil smells almost overwhelmingly of oxrush flowers. “Who else is going to stand between us helpless working girls and the many dangers out on the streets?”

“You strike me as far from helpless,” Geoff observes. Irene might not be a fighter, but she’s clearly clever, resourceful, astute. She reminds him far too much of Callista in her demeanour, and that’s a disconcerting thought altogether.

All he receives in answer to that is a grin, and then she turns her attention to massaging the scented oil into his palm. Irene has small hands, but her fingers are quick and nimble, and Geoff inevitably finds himself relaxing into the soft touch. He can’t fully ignore the knot that seems to be cinched in his chest – the manifestation of his concern for Emily and the guilt he feels sitting here in a comfortable and warm room getting the tension massaged out of his hands while she’s out in the cold – but he tries to put that aside, for now. Arbitrary as it seems, this time is necessary; he needs to make sure he is not suspected of being involved in her disappearance, or Emily will be ripped from his home as soon as he brings her there, and Corvo with her.

“You’re good at this,” he comments, trying to quell his spiralling thoughts by engaging in conversation. It’s an idle observation, but a very true one; he can feel the strain he didn’t even realise was there gradually lessen as she works.

“I am,” Irene agrees easily, and it’s not arrogance when it’s true. “Years of learning to play the harpsichord finally put to good use.”

It’s not difficult to pick up on the bitterness in her tone. “You play harpsichord?”

Irene doesn’t immediately answer; she drops his hand and wordlessly asks for his other one, and only when she’s applied another splash of oil does she speak. “It’s the reason I was employed here, before,” she mutters, her voice so quiet Geoff has to strain to hear her. It’s as though she’s afraid her very words will cause her harm – and perhaps they have before, based on the fading bruise on her upper arm. “The Golden Cat used to be the finest burlesque parlour in the Isles, but that was before the plague came. There’s no theatre here anymore, now. No need for musicians.”

But always a need for courtesans, she doesn’t have to say. “A shame,” Geoff says, in lieu of saying ‘I’m sorry’, which he doesn’t think is something Irene wants to hear. “One of my cousins was learning to play the harpsichord. It’s a beautiful sound.”

“‘Was’?” Irene repeats.

“Plague,” is all Geoff says.

She nods, her lips pressed together in a thin line, and renews her focus on the massage. There’s nothing more to say.

Irene works in silence until she is finished, and after drying her hands, she reaches up to tousle his hair. “There,” she says. “That’s the look of a man who’s just been thoroughly worked over.”

He snorts a soft laugh. “Thank you, Irene.”

“Any time, darling,” she lilts, slipping back into her Misty persona with practised ease as she walks him to the door of the Pearl Room. “You just remember who to come to if you ever need your harpsichord played.”

“I couldn’t forget if I wanted to,” Geoff chuckles. He wants to say something else in parting, but when he opens the door, they’re greeted with a thundering voice coming from down the hall that has the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“– _gone_! How could you possibly have _lost_ her, you stupid cow?!”

He immediately sets off in the direction of the voice, heading towards conflict as his officer’s training has instilled in him, and he is greeted with quite the scene in the foyer. One of the Pendleton brothers – Custis, perhaps? – is holding Madame Prudence’s upper arms in a vice grip, fingers digging harshly into flesh. He is very clearly displeased about having lost something, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what has him in such a state.

Geoff can’t help the surge of vindictive pleasure he feels at the sight of the panic on Pendleton’s face – serves the bastard right.

“Is there a problem?” Geoff asks as he approaches, seeming every bit the concerned officer wanting to assist his betters. “If you’ve lost something of value, the Watch can set up a search, my Lord.”

Pendleton balks at the mere idea; the last thing he would want is word of Emily’s disappearance getting back to Burrows. “No. No, it’s not important, Captain,” he says, releasing Prudence. “Be on your way.”

It takes a lot of effort to fight the grin pulling at his lips. “As you say, Lord Pendleton.”

He steps back with a shallow bow, the pinnacle of respect, and wordlessly turns to the front desk to retrieve his weaponry. And now he does allow himself a smile, directing it at the woman working the front desk and at Irene, who makes a point of kissing his cheek before she saunters off back to the Pearl Room. All in all, the situation is perfect; one of the brothers Pendleton himself has now witnessed Geoff, looking dishevelled and clearly having been _busy_ , emerge from one of the rooms in the Cat during the same hour Emily Kaldwin disappeared. There is no way Custis Pendleton will ever suspect him now.

All that’s left is to fetch Emily – Void, he can only pray she’s heeded his words and is waiting for him at the Captain’s Chair Hotel – and get her back to his home, back to her _father_ , unseen. Not a cinch in any sense of the word, but Geoff made Corvo a promise, and he will damn well do his best to keep it.

No matter the odds.

* * *

Winston and Inchmouth leave together with him, both of them more than a little bit intoxicated. On another day, Geoff might have found amusement in the fact that Inchmouth, for all of his usual scowls and disdain, is a jovial drunk, but tonight it is little more than a nuisance. Were Inchmouth his usual grouchy self, it would be easy to distance himself from his colleagues, but with Inchmouth throwing an arm around his shoulders and trying to herd him with them to the carriage station, it’s much more difficult to get away.

They’re already halfway down Clavering Boulevard when Geoff manages to convince Inchmouth and Winston that he could use the walk home to clear his head after his first time to the Golden Cat, and they finally leave him behind. Geoff ducks into an alleyway just off Bottle Street and waits until he cannot hear Inchmouth’s loud voice anymore before he loops back to where he came from, heading straight for the Captain’s Chair.

It’s raining as it almost always is in Dunwall, and his hair is clinging to his forehead by the time he makes it to the hotel. At least the Captain’s Chair is still a functional building, and Emily should have been dry within its walls. _If_ she stayed, that is.

Geoff approaches the one window that’s always left open, checking the streets to make sure no one is watching him before he peers into the dark entry hall of the hotel. It looks as abandoned as it’s been for months now. “Emily?” he calls, wincing when his voice echoes throughout the empty building. “The coast is clear, you can come out.”

There is no answer, and Geoff’s hands curl around the windowsill, panic clawing at his throat. If she isn’t here, if she decided not to trust him, if she went off on her own – Void, he doesn’t even want to think about it. A ten-year-old girl won’t survive long on the streets without help.

“Emily!” he tries again, louder this time, less restrained. “It’s alright, I won’t harm you, I –”

He stops short when he hears movement coming from the alleyway separating the hotel from the next building over, and Geoff cannot contain the sigh of relief when a young face with familiar brown eyes peeks around the corner.

“There you are,” he says, frowning in concern when he sees the state of her, completely drenched from the rain. Has she been out here the entire time he spent in the Pearl Room? Void, she must be _freezing_. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

Emily steps out of the alleyway fully, and Geoff immediately notices she’s still clutching his knife so tightly her knuckles have turned stark white. “There was a rat inside,” she says, and it would have sounded petulant before the time of the plague.

“I’m sorry,” Geoff offers, because he is – for directing her to a building that wasn’t safe, for taking so long at the Golden Cat, for everything that has happened to her these past few months. “There are no rats where we’re going, I promise.”

Emily’s eyes flick from his face down to the sword and pistol he’s carrying on his belt again, and he wishes he could read her thoughts. “Where _are_ we going?” she demands after a beat.

“The Legal District,” he says promptly. “My family’s home.”

Just _his_ home now, really, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think of it as anything other than the Curnow family home.

“And Corvo is there too?” Emily asks, her voice small and filled with the hope she’s trying so very hard to contain. “The Madame and Lord Pendleton said they – that they chopped his head off. In prison.”

Those _bastards_.

The boulevard is deserted, so he deems it safe enough to squat down to Emily’s eyelevel. “Corvo is fine,” Geoff gives a reassurance he knows she won’t take at face value, but one he has to give all the same. “He was in prison for a while, yes, but I broke him out.”

Immediately, the distrust is back in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”

“Because what happened to him wasn’t right,” he can supply readily enough. “And because Corvo is –” _everything to me_ “– my friend.”

Emily’s expression wavers, her grip on the knife slackening ever so slightly. “Is that how you knew that he’s my – my dad?”

She says it in a hushed tone, as if even here, in this dirty alleyway just off Clavering Boulevard, it is a secret that must be kept. Geoff can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for a child to not acknowledge her father in public – and for all the secrecy, there is still one thing that proves her Corvo’s daughter beyond all doubt. “You have his eyes.”

And for the first time, something akin to a smile appears on Emily’s face. “Mother always used to say that, too.”

Her voice is little more than a wistful sigh, and Geoff swallows thickly. “I’m sorry, about your mother,” he says softly. _I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it_ , he doesn’t say. _I’m sorry I let them lead me away like a fool_. “She deserved better.”

Emily averts her gaze, and though the rain makes it hard to tell, he’s almost sure she’s trying to hide her tears. “I want my mother,” she tells the cobblestones. “I want _Corvo_.”

Well, that much he can give her, if nothing else. “Come on, then,” Geoff says as he straightens, and perhaps he is too brisk, too eager to go, but then the longer they stay here, the higher the chances are of getting discovered. “Let’s get you back to your father.”

And though she is still wound up tighter than a spring, still clutching his spare dagger closely to her chest, still clearly doesn’t trust Geoff as far as she can throw him, Emily nods resolutely. “Okay.”

He knows she won’t take his hand, and so he doesn’t offer it to her; Emily follows after him – though three steps behind, ready to bolt at the drop of a hat – and that’s enough, for now.

Under the guise of the darkness that’s long since descended over the city and the rain still steadily falling, it’s not difficult to navigate the nearly deserted streets unseen. Geoff halts near the carriage station, waiting until the platform is devoid of people before he motions Emily along. The fewer people who see a Captain of the Watch in the company of a ten-year-old tonight, the better.

Emily hesitates when they get to the carriage – getting into an enclosed space with him is much more daunting than just following him through the streets – but she goes, sitting in the corner furthest away from him, back pressed against the door. She does, however, take his coat when he offers it to her, burrowing into the warmth she’s been denied in the hour she spent outside in the rain.

Geoff has to take the coat back before they exit the carriage, however awful it makes him feel. A girl in an oversized captain’s coat will stand out too much – and for that matter, so will a captain who is armed but lacking his uniform. It’s already risky enough to cross the Legal District together; this part of the city sleeps late and wakes early, and Emily does not have a convincing disguise like Corvo did when Geoff led him here.

But she keeps her habit of staying a few steps behind him, hugging the walls as best she can, and the few people Geoff passes on his way home barely acknowledge him, let alone his inconspicuous little shadow. He has to stop himself from looking back at Emily too often, still concerned she may get spooked and bolt at any given time – but they’ve already come this far, and Emily does not waver. Her desire to see her father again is stronger than her fear.

Geoff halts when his house looms in the distance, and he squats down, pretending to fix the laces of his boot. “Do you see that building there, with the balcony and the scaffolding?” he asks her the exact same question he asked Corvo, months ago now. He waits until he sees her nod in his peripheral. “It has a side door; go into the alleyway just to the left, and I’ll let you inside through there.”

He straightens up again, but before he can move, Emily speaks up behind him. “If you… If Corvo isn’t there,” she says, her voice shaking, “I will use this knife. I _will_.”

It’s a poor threat, especially now that Geoff has his own weaponry back, but the fact that she feels she has to make it is what sends the shivers down his spine. “If Corvo isn’t there,” he says, as calmly as he can manage, “I will let you.”

That, thankfully, is all it takes. Emily darts past him, looking back only once before she ducks into the alleyway, and Geoff breathes deeply before he crosses the street, the ever-present scent of petrichor almost overwhelming in that moment. He’s so close. So close to getting Corvo his daughter back. But he’s long since learned that nothing is certain until the whale sings its song, and he is still tense as he approaches his front door.

Geoff lets himself inside, and almost immediately, Corvo is stepping out into the hallway, looking at him with a painfully apprehensive expression on his face. There is a brief flash of disappointment in his eyes when he notices Emily is not with Geoff, but it quickly makes way for tentative hope when Geoff keeps moving down the hall and wordlessly gestures for Corvo to follow.

With Corvo on his heels, Geoff makes a beeline for the side door and unlocks it, and he cannot quite express how relieved he is when he opens the door to see Emily standing in the alleyway, back pressed against the wall and her hands still curled tightly around the hilt of the dagger. She regards Geoff with the same wary look in her eyes – but when he steps aside to open the door further, he can just catch a glimpse of her entire face lighting up before she’s little more than a blur of drab colours, launching herself through the door and straight into Corvo’s arms.

Corvo lifts her up the second she crashes against him, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, her gasping breaths muffled by the collar of Corvo’s sweater.

“Corvo,” Emily doesn’t quite cry, though it’s a close thing. “Corvo, you’re really here!”

Corvo answers her as best he can, humming softly as he holds her closer, one hand carrying her and the other firmly on the back of her head, as though he’s trying to shield her from the world and all of its horrors.

It’s a heartwarming sight – but Geoff knows it’s not meant for him. This is between father and daughter, so he turns away, locks the side door again and picks up his dagger from where Emily dropped it in her haste to get to Corvo, and then he retreats. The two of them need a moment alone, and Geoff… Geoff needs to try and wash the Voidawful scent of oxrush flowers from his hands.


	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of this year - I hope 2021 will bring good things to all of you! <3

Corvo comes to find him half an hour later, as Geoff has his arms elbow-deep into the sink, scrubbing futilely at his hands. Irene was right; the scent is pungent and impossible to be rid of, and it’s looking like Geoff will have to resign himself to knowing smiles and teasing remarks during his shift tomorrow.

But he can’t even be upset about it, not when Corvo wraps his arms around his middle from behind and Geoff can see his bright, nearly giddy smile in the mirror. It makes him look younger, less burdened by the world, and whatever specks of annoyance Geoff felt at the scented oil dissipate almost instantly. That smile is the most stunning thing he’s ever been allowed to lay eyes on, and it makes everything worth it, from breaking Corvo out to heading into Whaler territory to spending tonight at the Golden Cat. He would do all of it again thrice over if it meant seeing that smile.

“Is she doing alright?” Geoff asks, his tone soft, and though Corvo’s smile wanes a bit, he nods against Geoff’s shoulder. It’s a loaded question, and the answer is simplified, Geoff knows, but this is enough, for now. Emily is _safe_ , and that’s the most important thing. Dealing with all the horrors she’s endured will take time, but at least she has that time now.

Geoff pulls his hands out of the warm, soapy water and dries them, giving up on getting rid of the Voidawful smell, at least for today. Corvo catches a waft of the odour and wrinkles his nose, raising a questioning eyebrow at Geoff in the mirror.

“Scented oils,” Geoff sighs in response to the unspoken question. “I’ll smell like the Golden Cat for a week, all because of a Voiddamned _hand massage_.”

He has to put emphasis on that fact, has to make sure Corvo knows he didn’t partake in the usual pleasures offered at the Cat – not that it matters, not that Corvo would _care_ , but Geoff has to speak the words regardless. There’s _someone_ , he told Irene, and that is an unfortunate truth – because he knows his regard for Corvo is very much misplaced, for more than one reason. But he still wants Corvo to know that he has not indulged, because despite having shed his cowardice, Geoff is still very much a fool.

“ _Smells nice_ ,” Corvo briefly lifts his hands to sign, and Geoff snorts.

“Smells a lot less nice after a few hours,” he drawls, tossing the towel into the laundry basket because the damn scent has seeped into the fabric, too. “I’m never bringing oxrush flowers into this house again.”

Corvo chuckles softly, and briefly tightens his arms around Geoff before he lets go and steps back. Geoff immediately misses the warmth at his back, but he very much understands Corvo wanting to get back to his daughter, appreciates the fact that Corvo even cared to come find him at all. He’s not sure he would’ve been of the same mind, had he been in Corvo’s shoes.

But of course, Corvo feels compelled to show his gratitude above all else, and when Geoff turns to face him, he signs “ _Thank you_ ” as though Geoff could not already read that in his smile.

And Geoff would make light of it, would tell Corvo that anyone would have done the same thing if they were in his shoes – but then that’s the thing, isn’t it? There is no one who _chose_ to do this but him, and it is his decisions that have made all the difference. “I promised you I’d do whatever I could,” is what he says. “And I don’t care to make idle promises.”

“ _I know_ ,” Corvo signs, his eyes brimming with fondness. He signs something else, too, but Geoff cannot decipher enough of the gestures to make sense of it.

He smiles apologetically. “It seems I’m behind with my studies,” he says. “I’ll have to catch up.”

Corvo grins. “ _Is that a promise?_ ”

“Don’t push your luck, Attano.”

Corvo does not try to repeat the signs Geoff did not understand, instead gesturing at the bathtub, face open in a clear question.

“For Emily?” Geoff guesses, and Corvo nods. “Of course. I’ll find her some clothes, and she can choose whichever room she wants for herself – except for the one at the end of the hall upstairs. That one… will hopefully be occupied again someday.”

He tries not to linger on the thought of Callista – he wonders if he should have asked Daud to try and find her after all, will wonder that for many days to come – and he ignores the look of concern that has settled on Corvo’s features, too. “I’ll leave the clothes by the door, and then I’ll turn in. I have to be up early.”

That isn’t a lie, per se – he _does_ have to get up early, and he _is_ tired after today – but he is retiring only so Corvo and Emily can have some time alone, time they’ve been denied for much too long. Geoff will have to insert himself into their lives, as the one harbouring them, but tonight, and much of the day tomorrow, they can have to themselves. They deserve that much, at the very least.

Geoff goes to find some clothes in the room two of his cousins used to share. The youngest was twelve – only _twelve_ , when she died – and her clothes, though perhaps a little too big, should fit Emily alright enough. They will be nicer than the ratty sweater and oversized pants she’s been forced to wear for Outsider knows how long, if nothing else.

He carries a sizeable bundle of clothing back to the bathroom, intending to keep his word and lay them by the door before retiring to his room. But he doesn’t get that chance – doesn’t get a chance to do much at all, really, because something slams into him as soon as he turns the corner, and then there is a second Attano embracing him in the span of one hour.

“You didn’t lie,” Emily says, her voice filled with altogether far too much awe and relief. How many lies has she been fed these past few months, to be this surprised at being told a truth? “You really saved Corvo. You really did!”

Her eyes are impossibly bright, looking up at him like this, and Geoff couldn’t keep his face impassive if he wanted to, her infectious enthusiasm coercing his lips to curl into a tired smile. “I only did what I had to.”

It’s the same thing he told General Tobias the day after he broke Corvo out of Coldridge, months ago now, and it is still a resounding truth.

A snort comes from down the hall, and Geoff looks up to see Corvo leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, shaking his head. “ _You did so much_ ,” Corvo signs, his expression stern to emphasise the earnestness behind his words. “ _You changed everything_.”

“ _It was right_ ,” he signs back, his motions less fluid than Corvo’s, but no less sincere.

Corvo smiles warmly in response, and Emily looks between them curiously. “Is that a secret code?” she asks with an eagerness that only a child can possess. “Can I know it?”

“It’s not a code,” Geoff corrects her gently. “It’s a language. And you’re more than welcome to learn it.”

Corvo nods in agreement. “ _Tomorrow_.”

“Tomorrow,” Geoff translates for him. “You can get started tomorrow.”

Tonight, she should rest, take a bath and eat some proper food and sleep in a nice bed. Despite the enthusiasm she exudes at being back with her father, Emily looks exhausted, and she is long overdue some respite.

So Geoff hands Corvo the clothing he fetched and retreats to his room, both so they can have their privacy and so he can finally get some sleep. He does have to be at least semi-coherent during his shift tomorrow, after all.

He falls asleep more easily than usual, and he dreams of the harpsichord and of Corvo’s radiant smile.

* * *

When Geoff stumbles into the kitchen the next morning, groggy from the far too few hours of sleep he managed to get after all the excitement last night, he’s surprised to find Corvo already sitting at the kitchen table.

“Morning, Corvo,” Geoff mutters as he makes a beeline for his coffee maker. He’s going to need the caffeine. “You’re up early.”

But that might not be entirely accurate, considering the state of Corvo. He looks even more tired than Geoff does, his eyes bruised from lack of sleep. “Or up late?”

Corvo nods miserably, and Geoff wordlessly grabs a second mug from the cabinet, dropping two cubes of sugar in one and a splash of milk in the other. Perhaps it’s not even necessary to add the milk to Corvo’s cup anymore, considering how his sense of taste has diminished, but this is how he always took it back on the ship, before the world crumbled, and old habits die hard.

He makes the coffee and sets one of the mugs in front of Corvo, who is so out of it he visibly flinches at the sound of ceramic hitting wood. The startled expression quickly morphs into a grateful smile when the scent of coffee hits his nose, and he wraps his hands around the warm cup immediately.

Geoff sits down across from him and regards Corvo over his own cup. “Something eating at you?”

Corvo’s hands briefly tighten around the mug before he lifts them to sign. “ _Emily_ ,” he spells out the letters of her name much slower than he would if he were properly awake. “ _She has nightmares_.”

“Ah,” Geoff hums, not surprised in the slightest. After everything she’s endured these past few months, of course the poor girl would have nightmares. And considering Emily chose the bedroom right next to Corvo’s as her own… well, it makes more than a little sense that he would have trouble sleeping, especially if she takes after her father and talks in her sleep. The inner walls of the house are not thick enough to contain the screams.

“ _She_ –” Corvo begins, and then he stops, sighs, and fishes his notebook out of his pocket. He does not yet have the words he needs. _She asked to stay in my room_ , he writes. _Jessamine always used to let her, if she had a bad dream. I couldn’t tell her no, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt her._

The way he hurt Geoff, before, he doesn’t write, but then he doesn’t have to. Geoff understands perfectly well. “So you stayed awake instead,” he deduces, correctly. “That’s not going to work a second night.”

“ _I know!_ ” Corvo signs, the motion jerky, aggressive, his face angry. But as quickly as the expression came, it’s gone, and Corvo’s shoulders slump. “ _But I don’t know what else I can do._ ”

Geoff takes a sip of his coffee, hoping it will disperse the fog of sleep from his mind. “Perhaps you can stay with her, in her own room, until she falls asleep?” he suggests. “And talk to her about it, tell her you have nightmares too. Not the full extent of them,” he hastens to say when Corvo looks up in horror, eyes drawn to Geoff’s neck as though he can still see the imprints of his own hands on the skin. “Just to let her know that she’s not the only one still suffering, that she’s not magically expected to be alright now that she’s no longer actively in danger. It will help.”

Corvo stares at him in what can only be called wonder. “ _How do you always know what to do?_ ”

Geoff snorts into his mug. “I don’t,” he says wryly. “But I have some experience, with things of this nature. The Watch is not particularly proficient in caring for those who suffered through something traumatic – it’s hardly ever acknowledged at all. You learn a thing or two, about coping.”

Corvo lifts his hands, a contemplative expression on his face. “ _Do you have nightmares too?_ ”

He can see how Corvo could have drawn that conclusion from his words, but there are many who’ve been under worse mental strain than Geoff has. “I don’t dream often,” he tells Corvo. “Or at least I don’t remember them. But sometimes… sometimes I wake with the name of someone long gone on my lips.”

These days it’s most often a member of his family, but it has happened before; he’s ached for his old love from Tyvia, for his fellow guards who perished out in the field, for those he met during Fugue and never saw again. So many faces come and gone from his life, and he is a young man, still.

Corvo reaches across the table to squeeze his wrist, a simple touch given without second thought, and Geoff smiles at him, tired but earnest. “I have nothing to complain about. Especially not compared to you.”

“ _They’re getting less bad. The dreams_ ,” Corvo signs. “ _Because I’m here, I think. Because I’m safe. With you._ ”

Geoff can feel his ears burning, and Void but it is too early for this. He has a hard enough time keeping his wits about him around Corvo when he’s properly awake; now his mind wanders unbidden to the morning he awoke nestled against Corvo’s side on the living room couch, and that’s – no. That’s not what Corvo meant, and it’s tasteless of him to try and twist the sentiment into something it’s not.

“Just stay on your toes,” is what he says, the words coming out more clipped than he intended. “And keep an eye on Emily, make sure she knows to stay away from the windows. One neighbour looks inside at the wrong moment, and…”

“ _I know_ ,” Corvo signs, looking vaguely amused at Geoff’s immediate instinct to caution vigilance. “ _I’ve managed so far._ ”

“You have,” Geoff can only admit, because Corvo _has_ admirably managed to stay hidden. “I just worry.”

Corvo gives him a wry smile. “ _You should worry about breakfast_ ,” he signs. “ _You’re running late._ ”

Geoff’s head snaps up to look at the wall clock, and he mutters a curse under his breath. Between the trouble waking up because of the long night yesterday and trying to advise Corvo, he hadn’t even realised just how much time has passed.

But it was worth it just to see the calm having returned to Corvo’s eyes, and this time when Geoff kisses the top of his head before he hurries out the door, it feels almost like normalcy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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